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“And it already sold out? No pressure, huh?”
I look over at her, ignoring Asher entirely. “It sold out?”
“Yes.”
She doesn’t meet my gaze, sliding a folder back into her bag.
“You didn’t tell me.”
The words are out before I’ve thought them through, nothing more than a reflex. I know they’re a mistake, even before she scoffs. “I was going to tell you last night. Part of why I was late. You had other plans for the evening, apparently.”
Before I can decide how to respond or deal with the guilt, my father appears. The room falls silent as he takes his seat at the head of the table. There are no round tables at Kensington Consolidated. The pecking order might as well be spraypainted on the walls in here. Even among the board, the hierarchy is clear.
His eyes linger on Scarlett, but he doesn’t react to her presence. I knew he wouldn’t. I’ll hear about this at our next “chat” though.
Arthur Kensington doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He delves right into today’s agenda, taking updates from different departments on current projects and different acquisitions. The projectors display a series of graphs and charts disclosing profits and margins.
Scarlett seems engrossed in the material. I wonder if this is how she acted at Harvard.
I’m sipping my coffee when she speaks.
“Where are the November earning projections?”
Total silence follows Scarlett’s question. It’s carpeted in here, but if someone dropped a pen, you could hear it fall. You don’t interrupt Arthur Kensington. Not while he’s leading a meeting. Not when he’s complaining about the weather. Some of the executives sitting at the table have never said a single word during a board meeting, they’re so petrified of my father.
Scarlett isn’t stupid; she’s making a statement.
My father holds her gaze while the rest of us hold our breath. I have the bizarre urge to make a sound and break the quiet. To protect Scarlett from the heavy weight of Arthur Kensington’s disapproval.
Ridiculous on many levels, not the least of which is that Scarlett doesn’t need my protection—doesn’t need me for anything. She’s made that clear.
The rush of pride is also unexpected. Not many people have the confidence to question my father about anything, let alone business.
Silence continues to stretch. If I had to guess, I’d say that my father is wondering if dealing with Scarlett’s boldness is worth the billions we gained. He should try being married to her. I don’t regret agreeing to it—don’t hate her, the way she implied last night—but I most definitely underestimated what a challenge it would be.
“Isabel?”
I wonder if Scarlett knew Isabel is responsible for calculating the projections for our new projects. She definitely knew my father approves the packet before the meeting. I flip to the section containing the projections.September, October, December. No November.
My father missed a mistake, and Scarlett caught it.
“Yes, Mr. Kensington?” To Isabel’s credit, her voice doesn’t waver as she gets called out.
“Did your department exclude November from the projections?”
“It appears so. My apologies. I’ll correct the section and recirculate a copy to the board.”
My father nods. “Do that.” He looks to Scarlett. “I’m glad to see your talents extend beyond designing clothes and networking, Mrs. Kensington.”
The muscles in my jaw protest from how tightly I’m clenching it. I know exactly what he meant by networking, and the mention of fashion wasn’t a compliment.
“Even a CEO can make mistakes, Arthur.”
People don’t interrupt my father and they don’t call him by his first name either. Scarlett managed to break both rules in a span of two minutes.
My father tilts his head. He underestimated her. I knew it before; he knows it now.
The rest of the meeting passes without incident. I get pulled into a conversation with the head of our finance department as soon as it ends. I watch as Scarlett talks to Asher for a minute, then turns and leaves the conference room without sparing me a glance. A stupid part of me wants to chase after her. But I let her go.
