Chapter 2: Princess Di Faked It

From Barry Wright’s manifesto:
The one percent doesn’t have to follow the same rules as the ninety-nine percent. Like when Princess Diana got tired of living in the public spotlight, she faked her death. She and that boyfriend of hers now live in a fancy compound in Thailand.

TESSA

I shifted my gaze from the upturned faces of the audience to the slide on the giant screen behind me. It displayed only the highest-level statistics for the potential donors:

• One in seventy-five women will be diagnosed with ovarian cancer;
• Seventh most common cancer;
• Fifth highest cause of cancer death among women in the US.

I’d lovingly compiled rows and rows of data to back it up, but I’d also learned that few people cared about the data. They wanted it distilled into the purest, most digestible drop of truth.

“With more accessible testing and earlier diagnosis and treatment,” I said, “we could reduce the mortality rate by as much as thirty percent.” A woman wearing an expensive pink tweed suit in the front row leaned forward, her red velvet cake forgotten on the banquet table. Maybe my message was sinking in. Maybe her mother had cancer, too.

Time to bring it home. I flashed up the final slide, a stock photo of a mother cuddling her daughter. It represented both the history I wished I could rewrite for myself and a hopeful future for the living ovarian cancer patients.

“I hope you’ll join me in supporting this valuable research. Thank you.” As they applauded, I scanned the crowd. The audience was mostly women, some of them already reaching into their Prada bags, I hoped for their checkbooks and not their keys. Most of the younger women had their phones out. If they were making an online donation, I’d done my job.

But I couldn’t leave something this important to chance. I made eye contact with the pink tweed suit donor and stepped toward the stairs. I’d feel her out about adding a zero to her donation. Before I made it to the side of the stage, a white man in a gray suit caught my attention. He peeled himself off the back wall of the ballroom and sauntered toward me. My stomach clenched. I knew that lazy, overconfident walk.

Closing my eyes, I slowed my breaths. In. Out. Stay focused. Don’t lose control.

I hurried down the metal stairs. The last thing I wanted was to be caught sweltering in the spotlight while Harry Boseman mocked me.

My friend Bridget who, as chair of the philanthropic organization, had been sitting at the closest table, near the woman in the pink suit, met me at the bottom. Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun with waves escaping artfully in the front to frame her pale jaw. “Great job, hon. I have someone who wants to meet you. Dr. Maya Perrell.”

A petite woman with a gorgeous mane of salt-and-pepper hair stuck out her hand. “A compelling speech, Ms. Wright.”

“Thanks, and please call me Tessa. You think it landed with the group?”

Bridget checked her phone. “Donations are at 40K and climbing.” I nodded. I’d promised to match the final number with my own donation.

Dr. Maya Perrell said, “I was impressed by your knowledge of the subject. Do you work in biochemistry or biomedicine?”

“No, but my degree is in biology with a minor in computer science. I—”

“Tessa intended to go to medical school, but she was…distracted,” a too-familiar voice said. “Weren’t you, love?”

I took another measured breath. Harry’s posh British accent was what drew me to him twenty years ago. I’d first heard his voice in a hotel ballroom not unlike this one. But twenty years ago, that ballroom had been full of tech bros, and I was one of them. Flush with cash, cocky, and positive I’d make a difference in the world with my business. His rich drawl was a novelty in that room, and when his beautiful blue eyes met mine, I stumbled.

I should’ve taken it as a sign.

Here, he cupped my elbow and pulled me in for a double-cheek kiss. “You remembered to focus on the message, not the data. You’ve come so far, darling.” His smug smile turned sensual. “It’s been a while.”

“Not long enough,” I muttered, tugging out of his grip.

I didn’t think Dr. Perrell heard our exchange, but her gaze sharpened on me. “If you’re not a Ph.D., I’m doubly impressed by your presentation. What do you do now?”

Harry drew himself up. “Surely you remember Tess founded—”

“Go away, Harry.” Bridget pushed her way between us. “The grown-ups are talking.”

I flashed her a grateful smile. Talking about my former business always threw me off my game. Regret had a way of doing that.

He looked like he might protest, but when Dr. Perrell ignored him, he said, “We should catch up sometime. I’ll text you, Tess.”

Too bad I blocked you years ago.

After he strolled away, hands in his trouser pockets, Dr. Perrell spoke. “You have such a passion for the subject. I’m impressed with how you conveyed the technical information in a way these people could understand.” She swept a hand toward the audience.

Some, like Bridget, were businesspeople who lived in a world of research and development, profit and loss, debits and credits. Others were artists or stay-at-home spouses or heiresses. They’d all come together to fight cancer, and I’d brought my A game.

“Thank you,” I said. “When Bridget invited me, I couldn’t resist a chance to present my personal research to this group of philanthropists.”

A calculating gleam lit Dr. Perrell’s dark-brown eyes. “Tell me, Tessa, what do you do when you’re not presenting to a group of two hundred people?”

Despite the pit that hollowed my stomach, I forced a breezy tone. “Mostly research, when I’m not supporting my favorite causes through volunteer work.” I sounded exactly like the retirees and ex-trophy wives in the room. I didn’t need to elaborate that I used research to battle my crushing boredom or that I could only volunteer on days when my pain was manageable or that for years my cats had been my only company. Like in my presentation, sharing too many details was dangerous.

Dr. Perrell stepped closer. “I’m the CEO and chairperson at Discovery Diagnostics. We’ve…we’ve hit a plateau with our research. We could use someone like you.”

Why did that company’s name sound familiar? But the usual words came automatically. “Oh, no, I—”

“Why not?” Bridget asked. “You’ve been looking for an opportunity for a while.”

“Oh, have I?” I let a note of warning seep into my tone. She was right. I’d been looking for my next career move for over a dozen years, since the euphoria of selling my company for a billion dollars had soured over what happened next.

But nothing I’d tried held my interest. At least, that’s what I told everyone. They didn’t have to know that I’d developed a weird sense that warned me before someone was about to betray me. I raised my eyebrows at my soon-to-be former friend.

“Come on,” she persisted. “You must have come across Discovery Diagnostics in your research. They’re a leader in what you talked about today: biomarker testing for cancers and other conditions.”

“Sign an NDA, and I can tell you exactly how close we are to developing a groundbreaking test for ovarian cancer,” Dr. Perrell said.

I swayed back like she’d poked me. There was no way she could know about my mom, was there? I knew enough about cybersecurity to lock down my background online. Every time someone tried to create a wiki page about me, I had it nuked.

“Wh-why would you need me? I’m no biomedical engineer.”

“We have biomedical engineers,” Dr. Perrell said. “What we need is a person who knows business. Someone who can translate our scientists’ discoveries into a language the market understands. A person who understands industry pressures and can encourage our team to deliver according to those demands.”

“You mean you need someone to give your scientists a push,” I said. I knew exactly what she was talking about. It was how I’d grown Red Rover from a group of college kids to a business valued at a billion dollars. My heart thumped. I could do this. And maybe save some other little girl the emotional pain I went through.

My mind spun with possibilities. Biomarkers could indicate a variety of conditions and determine the best course of treatment for them. With the right technology, I could save someone from physical pain too.

“Come to the office on Monday.” Dr. Perrell extended a business card. “I’ll give you a tour of the labs, and we’ll talk.”

I took it from her. “Okay.” A tour and a talk wouldn’t hurt. Plus, it would get me out of the house on another dull Monday.

“Thank you,” the CEO said. “I’ve got twin daughters having destination weddings this year—separately. A little juice to the company’s valuation could help me avoid a second mortgage.” She chuckled nervously.

Bridget squeezed my arm. “This is going to be fabulous. I love a win-win.”

Win-win sounded too much like what Harry had sold me. Except no one won but him. However, I’d give Dr. Maya Perrell a chance if she had the inside track on detecting the disease that took my mom from us.

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