“Looking forward to it.” I joke as he leaned back.
This lunch is unofficial, but I want you to meet Louis Dubois. He is our main point of contact here inFrance. He’s old-school and worked under my father, so he’s seen more mergers and restructurings than I can count. He will manage our accounts across Europe, but obviously following directly what happens at Hayes HQ back in NYC. He is not a bad guy to have in your corner.”
“Understood.”
“Also,” he said, taking a slow sip of his drink, “we’ll need you back in New York early next week. I’ve scheduled a formal announcement for the press, internal teams, and the board. You’ll be officially introduced as CEO. Nothing major, just a few hundred people and a dozen reporters.”
“Nothing I haven’t done before,” I said calmly, though my mind was already sketching logistics. Flights. Prep. Talking points. “Harper’s your assistant, right?”
“Yes, sir. She is.”
“Good. We’ll get her squared away.” Louis arrived just then, all warmth and crisp cologne, shaking my hand with a grip that tested something unspoken.
“Bienvenue à bord,” he said, smiling. “Welcome aboard.”
“Merci,” I replied, matching his ease. We got down to business over duck confit and truffle risotto. They talked numbers, subsidiaries, brand reputation in Europe versus North America, our supply chain partners in Hong Kong, and upcoming ESG commitments. I kept pace easily. I’d run three companies by thirty-five. This wasn’t new.
But the stakes felt different. This wasn’t mine, not entirely. Not yet. Max leaned in after the waiter cleared our plates. “We’ll give you a few weeks in transition, then it’s go-time. I want this to be seamless.”
“It will be.” Louis nodded. “Hayes International is ready for new blood. Just don’t bleed us dry, hm?” I smiled.
“Only if you deserve it.” They laughed.
Deals like this were always made in places like Maison, under the glow of gold chandeliers, with the clink of wine glasses to soften the blow of what was really being said. You’re in, but you're being watched. You’re trusted, but not yet proven. You’re wearing the title, but the crown’s still warming.
By the end of lunch, we’d agreed on a working timeline, press talking points, and a follow-up dinner with the European directors two weeks out.
When I left, I didn’t feel overwhelmed, but not entirely comfortable.
CHAPTER SEVEN
sam
“You’re being weird,”Rose said as we crossed Pont Royal, the sun glinting off the Seine like it was trying to blind us.
“No, I’m not,” I replied too quickly.
“Um, yes, you are,” she said, not even looking at me. “Your face is doing that weird thing. The thing where you look like you’ve seen a ghost and you’re jumpy, and I don’t know…”
I sighed, “He’s having lunch with my dad. Today. Like… right now.”
“Oh shit, so that means your dad is here, in Paris, and you’re here.” She blinked hard, like she was doing a math problem in her head or something. I know she does this when she’s processing, but it’s creepy.
“Exactly.”
She let out a low whistle and started walking again. “You don’t do boring. I’ll give you that.”
“I don’t do family dynasties either,” I muttered.
We turned onto the museum steps, the grand stone façade of the Musée d'Orsay towering above us. The tourists clustered near the entrance, and somewhere inside were the quiet hallways I’d been looking forward to, my kind of sanctuary. Stillness, beauty, and rooms full of people who didn’t know or care who Samantha Hayes used to be.
We made it through security and headed toward the Impressionists wing, dodging slow walkers and kids on school tours. “I just hate that everything is always tied back to Hayes,” I said as we climbed the stairs. “Even when I’ve built my own life, my own career, my own world… it circles back. Like I can’t outrun it.”
“You’re not running,” Rose said gently. “You’re flying, remember?” I cracked a smile despite myself.
We walked in silence for a moment, letting the colors and strokes of Monet and Degas pull us into their stillness. Then Rose leaned in. “So… do you think you’re going to see him again?”
I shrugged. “He asked.”
