“I don’t care if you have a signed letter from Cleopatra herself.” He leans forward, planting his palms on my desk. “This is exactly the kind of distraction that will ruin you. You have responsibilities. Real responsibilities. Not some vanity project in the desert.”
“It’s not a vanity project.”
“Then what is it?” He straightens, crossing his arms. “What possible business sense does this make? What’s your ROI? Your exit strategy?”
“Not everything is about ROI,” I hear myself say, and I’m surprised by the steadiness in my voice.
“Everything in business is about ROI.” His face is reddening now, the way it always does when he’s losing his temper. “I raised you better than this. I groomed you to take over this empire, not to waste your time playing Indiana Jones in some third-world country.”
The words hit like a slap, but instead of making me shrink back, they ignite something in my chest. Rage. Pure, white-hot rage.
“You didn’t raise me,” I say quietly. “You trained me. Like an investment. Like a stock you were grooming to perform.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“And maybe that’s exactly why I need to do this.” I stand up, facing him across the desk. “Maybe I need to do something that matters tome, not just to the bottom line.”
“Something that matters?” He shakes his head, disgust clear on his face. “Your grandmother’s stories matter? Some rocks in the sand matter? Grow up, Calvin. This is the real world.”
“Get out of my office.”
The words surprise us both. For a moment, neither of us moves.
“What did you say to me?”
“I said get out. I’ll handle the laundromat deal. You’ll have your ROI. But the Jumayah project is mine, and I don’t need your approval for it.”
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Then he turns on his heel and storms out, slamming the door hard enough that the books on my desk jump.
I sink back into my chair, my heart pounding.
Danielle appears a moment later with the coffee, taking one look at my face and the empty room. “Should I…”
“Just leave it, please. Thank you.”
She sets down the tray and slips out quietly.
I turn back to the window, back to the glittering skyline that suddenly feels suffocating. My father’s words echo in my head:vanity project,fairy tales,distraction.
But all they do is make me more certain, and so I pull out my phone and dial Ollie.
“Yes?” He answers on the first ring.
“Did you find Georgia Halford’s number yet?”
“Just sent it to you.”
My phone buzzes with a text. I pull up the contact, staring at the number for only a moment before taking action. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m calling her now.”
I hang up and press the number Ollie sent. It rings once. Twice. Three times. Four times.
And…voicemail. A generic automated message, nothing personal.
I hang up without leaving a message and immediately dial again.
Same result.
“Dammit,” I mutter, tossing my phone onto the desk.
