No. I cut that thought short. That wasn't the point.
I'd given Natalie two months to learn how brutal the real world could be. Not to thrive in it.
Christ, she'd actually made a name for herself in Vegas. Hidden behind some silver mask, she still had people eating out of her hand on those stages.
The thought irritated me beyond measure.
"Sir, should I arrange a meeting between you and Nightingale?"
I took a deep breath after David said that. "No."
I hadn't sunk low enough to need David playing matchmaker between me and Natalie. She was my wife. Even if we were divorced now, I knew it was temporary. We didn't need intermediaries. No go-betweens.
I'd go get Natalie myself.
That plan lasted about a minute.
The office door swung open. Olivia wore a navy pinstripe suit today, classic power player, files in hand. She was already talking as she walked in. "Richard, the board called an emergency strategy meeting."
"Now?" I let out a cold laugh. "Whoever made that moronic decision can clear out their desk."
Olivia sighed, stepping closer. "I know, but Carlton's insisting. Says some traditional considerations need face-to-face discussion." She lowered her voice. "He brought two other uncles. Richard, if you don't show, they'll think you're disrespecting the family."
Carlton was my uncle, that old fossil who insisted on meddling in the company despite his age. Sometimes I thoughtrunning a multinational corporation was easier than dealing with these relatives.
The meeting was worsethan I'd imagined.
Carlton sat beside the head of the table, silver hair slicked back, gripping that ridiculous ivory cane.
The proposal itself was a joke. They wanted to push a heritage line in European markets, emphasizing handcrafted quality and family legacy narratives. Sounded nice until I saw the budget—marketing costs triple the production costs, targeting distinguished elderly gentlemen.
"We need to solidify Winston's classic image," Carlton droned. "In these superficial times, quality and heritage are what—"
"Quality and heritage don't pay the bills," I cut him off, tossing the folder back onto the table.
The room went quiet.
"This proposal uses five-year-old data. Your target demographic averages sixty-eight years old. Know what their projected spending growth is over the next five years? One point two percent. Meanwhile, the luxury market for consumers under thirty-five is growing at twenty-two percent."
I leaned forward, sarcasm dripping from every word. "You want to spend triple the costs chasing a stagnant, shrinking market because of tradition? This isn't a business decision. It's you throwing the company's money at an expensive nostalgia party."
Across the table, some cousin, I couldn't even remember his name, cleared his throat. "Richard, that's not fair. Winston'sfoundation is built on these established clients. We can't abandon our roots—"
"Winston Group hasn't fallen so far that it needs to survive off geriatrics."
Carlton's face darkened. "Richard, is that any way to speak to your elders?"
"I'm just keeping business and personal separate." I straightened, adjusting my cuffs. "But if the next meeting brings more garbage like this," I jabbed a finger at the proposal, "wasting my time and everyone else's, whoever prepared this material can pack their things tomorrow. Winston doesn't keep idiots on payroll."
Dead silence.
I checked my watch. "Anything else? No? Meeting adjourned."
I gave them one second. Nobody spoke. Satisfied, I turned and left, though I didn't need to look back to feel those stares burning holes in my back. Let them stew. These people had coasted on trust funds and the family name their entire lives, actually believing business was child's play.
Carlton followed me into the hallway, cane tapping.
"Richard, wait."
