Free Trilemma by Jennifer Mortimer

draft of the e-mail I have been writing to Ben. I read my words again, but this time there are no improvements to make.
    I hold my head in my hands while the sky spins slowly and my stomach churns.
    I could send the email. Tell Ben I love him and ask if we can fix what went wrong. Ask him to forgive me.
    Instead, I delete the e-mail.

Part II
Woman at the Top

Chapter 14
    At night and in the morning, before the meetings start, my brain is full of ideas and options and plans for what to do. It is as well I have that time to think because during the day and into the evening I meet with staff, our lawyers, the public relations agency, the accountants, and barely have time to clear my e-mails before nine p.m.
    In the brief moments between meetings, my gaze returns to the corner where Adam died. If I close my eyes, I can see him, the sparse gray hair messed up and his eye staring into nothingness. They said it was fast. I hope he didn’t feel any pain.
    I pace the room before making up my mind. The desk is heavy, but I tug and twist and shuffle it around so the window is beside my chair and I won’t be staring at that corner. Instead, I will gaze out at the sea. I shift the bookshelf behind the door to cover the spot where Adam lay. Then the table has to be moved as well to balance the space.
    I sit down at the desk and run my fingers across the golden wood, shot through with flecks of caramel, then glance around the innocuous room.
    Better.
    Two days later, I get in to the office early, open my laptop, and sip on my take-out coffee. While I wait for my overnight emails and my day’s appointments to appear, I glance across at the corner where the bookshelf now stands. Instead of family photographs, three large glass bowls adorn the shelves; one inchartreuse and lavender, one in shades of pink and cobalt, and the tallest an acid-yellow mixed with violet.
    This is
my
office now.
    I wash my hands in the executive bathroom;
my
bathroom, the toilet seat firmly set down, and stare at my face in the mirror. Framed by shoulder-length red hair my dark, slanted eyes gaze back without expression. I stretch my mouth into a polite, executive smile. I practice my smile again, and then for a third time. The eyes stay still.
Good.
    I tuck the ends of my hair behind my ears.
Better.
    Then I fish out a smart set of red-framed spectacles and put them on. This is my new image: chief executive Lin.
Perfect.
    That night I leave early and get home just before seven and turn on the television.
    Men in black appear, moving in slow motion and in soft focus across the screen. It is an advertisement celebrating New Zealand’s beloved All Blacks, the national team for the national sport of rugby. Although from what I can see they are nearly All Brown. Now they are taking off their jerseys. I watch, entranced, but they go no farther. Teasers!
    Finally, the ads end and the current-affairs program starts up. The presenter is a pretty boy who wears nearly as much makeup as they put on me. But I’m not complaining because he was really
very nice
. The camera zooms onto my face.
    Wearing my specs and with my hair drawn back behind my ears, I think I look intellectual and authoritative. And less Asian.
    â€œWelcome to Linnette Mere, the new chief executive of Hera, the international company that is trying to join the broadband race,” he says, cocking his head to one side. “Congratulations on the new job!”
    I watch myself smile politely back. Smiles are important on television, but you have to get it right. Not too wide, not toosmall. “Actually, my name is pronounced Linnet,” I say. “The little bird with a sweet voice.”
    â€œSweet, sweet. As a woman, were you surprised to get the nod?”
    â€œNew Zealand has a great record where women are concerned,” I reply. “The first country to give women the vote.” I don’t mention that several American states beat New Zealand to this; no one likes