The Zurich Effect

Or not?

"Your shirt is buttoned wrong," Luca observed.

Zuri looked down. Bollocks. It absolutely was.

She fumbled with the buttons, face burning, whilst Amélie cackled.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of emails and spreadsheets and Lars explaining compound interest to nobody in particular. Zuri was halfway through a financial model when Linda emerged from her office.

"Zuri? Dmitri Volkov is here early. Could you handle the preliminary brief whilst I finish this call?"

Zuri's brain short-circuited slightly. "I'm sorry, me?"

"You have the West African market analysis. Just give him the overview."

"But I'm not—" I'm wearing a shirt that's buttoned wrong and I'm having a financial crisis.

"You'll be fine. Conference room two. Five minutes."

Linda disappeared back into her office.

Sophie was already fixing Zuri's shirt buttons. "Breathe. You're brilliant. Just don't mention your overdraft."

"Why would I mention my overdraft?"

"You mentioned it to the coffee machine yesterday."

Zuri had no defence for that.

She gathered her files, checked her reflection in her phone screen—acceptable, if slightly manic—and walked towards conference room two like she was heading towards something between a job interview and an execution.

Dmitri Volkov was standing by the window, looking at Zurich like he was calculating its net worth. He turned when she entered, and Zuri's first thought was that photographs didn't do him justice. Her second thought was that this was deeply problematic for her concentration.

"Mr Volkov," she said, extending her hand. Professional. Capable. Not at all distracted by cheekbones that could cut glass.

"Dmitri, please." His accent was British boarding school with something else underneath. "You must be..."

"Zuri Okonkwo. Junior analyst. I'll be walking you through our preliminary market assessment."

His handshake was warm. His eyes—grey, unfairly striking—held hers for a moment longer than strictly professional.

"Okonkwo," he said. "Nigerian?"

"Yes."

"Perfect. I actually wanted insight into the Lagos market specifically. Your analysis came highly recommended."

"Did it?" Zuri tried to remember submitting any analysis that was "highly recommended" versus "completed ten minutes before deadline whilst eating yesterday's croissant."

"Klaus mentioned you were educated in West Africa as well as Europe. Rare combination."

Zuri just nodded. Words seemed complicated suddenly.

"Shall we?"

They sat. Zuri opened her laptop. Started the presentation.

And somewhere between slide three and slide seven, something peculiar happened.

He was actually listening.

Not the usual client listening, where they checked their phones and nodded at random intervals. Actually listening. Asking intelligent questions. Challenging her assumptions in ways that made her think rather than just defend.

"Your projection for mobile banking adoption seems conservative," he said, leaning forwards. "Given the current trajectory—"

"The trajectory assumes political stability," Zuri countered. "Elections are coming up in three of the five countries we're targeting. Market volatility is guaranteed."

"You follow West African politics?"

"I follow anything that affects market conditions."

That wasn't entirely true. She followed West African politics because her father called every Sunday to lecture her about regional economic policy, and she'd learned to actually listen somewhere around the third year of calls.

Dmitri was looking at her with something that might have been respect. "Most analysts I meet don't factor political risk until it's already crashed their projections."

"Most analysts don't have family members who send them BBC Africa articles with the subject line 'READ THIS OR YOU'RE DISOWNED.'"

He laughed. Actually laughed, not the polite client chuckle. "Sounds familiar. My mother sends me Greek newspaper clippings. In Greek. Which I don't read."

"That's commitment to disappointment."

"It's a family tradition."

They went through the rest of the presentation. Zuri forgot to be nervous. Forgot to worry about her overdraft or her mother's phone call or the fact that Luca Bergmann definitely remembered her pizza delivery incident.

She just talked about markets and risk assessment and the fascinating intersection of mobile technology and informal economies, and Dmitri listened like it mattered.

When they finished, he sat back, looking thoughtful. "That was exceptional."

"It's preliminary. We'll have more detailed—"

"No, I mean you. You're exceptional."

Zuri's mouth opened. Nothing came out. Her brain had apparently left the building.

"I'm just doing my job," she finally managed.

"Most people just do their jobs. You actually understand what you're talking about." He paused. "I'm hosting a dinner meeting next week. Key stakeholders, some potential investors. Would you be willing to present the expanded analysis?"

"That's usually Linda's territory—"

"I'd prefer you."

There was something in the way he said it. Professional, but with an edge that suggested he was aware—very aware—that this conversation was happening in a conference room with glass walls and an entire office watching.

Zuri stared at him. No clever response. No deflection.

"I'll check with Linda," she said eventually. "But I'd be happy to."

"Excellent." He stood, extended his hand again. "Looking forward to working with you, Zuri."

She shook it. Maintained eye contact. Absolutely did not think about how his hands were unfairly attractive or how his cologne smelt like it cost more than her rent.

He left. She sat there for a moment, collecting herself.

Then she returned to the office, where Sophie was practically vibrating.

"OH MY GOD."

Zuri said nothing. What was there to say?

"He looked at you like you were the only person in the building."

Still nothing. Zuri just sat down, opened her laptop, and pretended to work whilst her brain replayed every single second of that meeting.

"Business meetings don't involve smiling like that," Sophie continued.

Amélie had joined them. "The way he looked at you. Mon Dieu. Like you were a croissant and he'd been fasting."

Zuri's face was burning.

Luca appeared at her desk. "Well. That was interesting."

"It was a standard client brief."

"Is that why you're blushing?"

Zuri touched her face. Bollocks.

"It's warm in here."

"It's nineteen degrees. Lars checked."

"Of course Lars checked."

Her phone buzzed. A calendar invitation.

Dinner meeting. Next Thursday. Dmitri Volkov's office. Black tie optional.

"Black tie optional?" Sophie shrieked, reading over her shoulder. "THAT'S A DATE."

"It's a business dinner."

"It's black tie!"

Zuri looked at the invitation. At the words "black tie optional" which meant something very specific to people who understood old money. Optional meant mandatory. Optional meant knowing which watch to wear, which shoes, which everything.

Optional meant understanding that the real dress code was unspoken.

And she had seven days to figure it out.

Seven days to find something appropriate.

Seven days to not make a complete fool of herself in front of a man who looked at her like she was interesting.

"I need a dress," she said faintly.

"NO," Min-jun and Lars said in unison.

But Zuri was already calculating. Already planning. Already making the kind of financial decision that would either save her career or destroy it entirely.

Her phone buzzed again. Her mother.

Your cousin Ngozi just made partner at her law firm. She's twenty-four.

Zuri stared at the message. At the unspoken comparison. At the expectations she was apparently failing to meet.

She put her phone away.

Seven days. She could do this.

She had to do this.

Even if it bankrupted her.

Especially if it bankrupted her.

Because good things must be experienced, regardless of the cost.

That was her philosophy.

And she was sticking to it.