Roman Ellis. One of my closest friends from Harvard Business School. The self-made billionaire who built NutriFlow into a meal delivery empire and is getting married in three weeks to a woman who probably deserves better than him.
And the bastard wants to talk about a fight like we’re still on a school playground.
ME: News travels fast.
ROMAN: Richard Francis apparently has a big mouth. Word reached Christian late last night. Christian called me. I'm now calling you to confirm.
ROMAN: Did you actually deck Alexei?
ME: Yes.
ROMAN: In front of board members?
ME: Yes.
ROMAN: At a business dinner on his yacht?
ME: Technically the yacht was Richard's. But yes.
Three dots appear. Then?—
ROMAN: I'm so fucking proud of you right now.
ME: It was unprofessional.
ROMAN: It was PERFECT. That svoloch had it coming.
I note that Roman just used the same Russian word Babushka uses for my father. They've never met, but apparently they're aligned on my family's character assessment.
ROMAN: Did you at least get a good hit in?
ME: Mighta broke his nose.
ROMAN: EXCELLENT. Christian owes me five thousand dollars.
ME: You bet on whether I'd hit him?
ROMAN: We bet on whether you'd hit him HARD ENOUGH to do damage. I said yes. Christian said you'd pull the punch because you're "too controlled."
ME: Tell Christian he doesn't know me as well as he thinks.
ROMAN: Already did. He's sulking. It's hilarious.
I take another sip of coffee, and despite the chaos of last night, I feel my mouth curve slightly.
ROMAN: So. The acquisition?
ME: Dead.
ROMAN: And you're okay with that?
I pause, considering the question.
Am I okay with it?
I just lost a hundred-million-dollar deal. Patricia Franklin and the board are probably already drafting my termination paperwork. Rachel is going to simultaneously attack me and have an aneurysm when I tell her.
But I walked away from Alexei, from Isabelle. From Richard Francis and his manipulative bullshit.
