"Yes."
They stared at each other. Battle of wills. I'd seen this before, usually from the sidelines, usually with a drink in my hand and a bemused expression on my face. This time, I was the subject under discussion, and it was significantly less entertaining.
Sebastian's jaw flexed. A muscle twitched near his eye. These were the only signs that he was furious. Anyone else would be shouting by now. Sebastian just got quieter. Stiller. More dangerous.
"Fine." He bit out the word. "VP. But when he fails, and hewillfail, it's on your head. Not mine."
My grandmother patted his arm like he was a sulking child. "That's all I ask."
She rose and gathered her coat. Gerald materialized at her side with the briefcase, and they swept toward the door like a matched set, attorney trailing matriarch.
At the threshold, she paused. "Six months, Xavier. Don't waste them."
The door clicked shut.
I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding. Crossed to the bar cart. Poured another whiskey. "Well. That was fun."
Sebastian didn't respond. He stood in the middle of my living room, hands in his pockets, staring at the spot where our grandmother had been sitting. Then he moved to the bar cart, poured his own glass, and drained it in one long swallow.
"Don't make me regret this."
"Sebastian..."
"I mean it." He set down the glass. Turned toward the door. "This is not a joke. This is not one of your games. Show up. Do the work. Or so help me God, I will make your life miserable."
“You won’t regret anything if you’d just put a stop to this. You owe me, remember?”
Sebastian stopped. His shoulders tensed. "Excuse me?"
"Last year. The situation with Aria." I moved closer. "You promised you’d do me a favor and I told you I’d collect..."
"This isn't what I meant." He turned. Sebastian looked just as terrified of our grandmother as I was. "Ask for something else. This is way above my pay grade."
He left. The door closed softly behind him.
I stood alone in my apartment, surrounded by all my expensive things, and wondered how my life had gone so wrong so fast.
The next six weeks were a disaster.
I wasn't about to make this easy for them. Not a chance. If they wanted to force me into a corner, I'd make them regret it.
I showed up late on Monday. Deliberately. I strolled in at 10:47, coffee in hand, and smiled at the assistant who'd been assigned to manage my schedule. She looked like she wanted to cry. By Wednesday, she'd requested a transfer.
They sent a replacement. Young guy, fresh out of business school, eager to please. I asked him to reorganize my entire office by color. Then by height. Then by "general aesthetic vibe." He lasted three days.
The third assistant was a middle-aged woman named Patricia who reminded me uncomfortably of my grandmother. She took one look at my cluttered desk, my untouched reports, my general attitude of amused disinterest, and put in her transfer request after two weeks.
Sebastian's reports piled up in the corner. I didn't read them. Didn't even open them. I took long lunches that became long afternoons. I charmed the interns, irritated the executives, treated the entire thing like an elaborate joke.
Because if I took it seriously, I'd have to admit I had no idea what I was doing. And I wasn't ready for that.
The first time Sebastian called me into his office, I knew it was coming. I'd been waiting for it, actually. Looking forward to it, in a perverse way.
His corner office was everything mine wasn't: organized, pristine, intimidating. His desk was a massive slab of dark wood, empty except for a laptop and a single folder. He sat behind it like a king on a throne, and when I walked in, he didn't stand.
"Close the door."
I did. Then I dropped into the chair across from him, sprawling like I owned the place. "You wanted to see me?"
