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“And they’re going to run things now.”
“Run things now,” I echo. “What does that mean, run things now?”
I feel like I am going to have a panic attack. Scratch that. I am having a panic attack. Because none of this makes sense. I thought all the rumors were just that–rumors. People talking because people like to talk.
“I don’t know,” she sighs as the door to the elevator opens. “But I guess there’s going to be a meeting today with all the higher-ups. I’m assuming you’ll be included. So you’ll have to tell me exactly what happens.”
I nod, trying hard to swallow but struggling because I feel like I am going to be sick.
So I start making a list. A mental checklist. It’s what I do when I am stressed and frazzled and things are too jumbled in my brain. It’s why I am as organized as I am and why I’m good at my job. It’s why I’ve made it this far.
“I need to talk to my dad,” I say as I put a lid on my fresh latte, ignoring the art the barista made in the foam and then feeling bad about it. I’ve always loved coffee art. I think I’m the only one who ever praises Kat’s coffee art, which is why she always does it for me. So when I snap the lid over the cup without so much as a moment of admiration, I feel bad and make a mental note to praise her twice as much tomorrow.
If I’m here tomorrow.
“I’m going to go to the conference room early–when is the meeting?” I interrupt myself just as Charlie falls into step with us. He’s part of the marketing team.
“In ten minutes,” he says.
“Ten minutes?” I blurt out. “Shit. That’s not long enough to talk to my dad to figure out what the hell is going on.”
“Your dad’s not here,” Charlie says. I take a sip of my latte, hoping the acidity from the dark roast doesn’t burn a hole in my already irritated stomach.
“Is he coming in late today?” I ask. “He always chooses the worst days to come in late.”
“He’s not coming in,” Charlie says slowly, and I stop. I glance at Dylan, who is clearly still confused, and then back at him.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, and he bites his lip.
“Charlie,” I whisper-yell. “I have to go to this meeting in less than ten minutes, and you’re telling me that my father, the CEO of the company, isn’t even here?”
“He’s not the CEO anymore, Natalie…” Charlie says, and my jaw drops. The room begins to spin and I am certain I am going to pass out. I take another sip of my coffee and make my way to the conference room so I can figure out what the hell is going on with my family’s company.
The room is abuzz with all the higher-ups. Head of marketing, head of accounting, head of HR, client services, communication, run of show, concept development–literally everyone except my dad. Which is so unsettlingly strange.
“Alright everyone, everyone…” a woman with a gorgeously wild afro and long nails I have never seen in my life claps her hands together in an attempt to get everyone’s attention. “I know we all have a lot of questions, so why don’t we get started?”
“Should I pack up my chia plants now, or do I have two weeks to do it?” someone calls out, and everyone else laughs. But it’s a cynical laugh. Because all of us know that nothing about this can be good. Nothing. I pull out my phone and send a quick text.
Natalie- Dad. Where are you? And what’s going on?
I shove my phone into my pocket, and while there are chairs available, I stand in the back against the wall. I want to hear what’s going on and figure all of this out. But even with my position in the company, I don’t want to be in the middle of it all.
“I know this is a big change for everyone,” the woman says, and since staking my spot, I can no longer see her. I can only hear her, but I’m okay with that too.
The woman starts talking. “I promise you that change, no matter how big or scary, can be good. Which is why I am honored as the head of PR at Ashford Hospitality to introduce to you your new CEO…”
The words become blurry as I attempt to process them.
What does she mean new CEO?
Mission Events doesn’t need a new CEO. They have a CEO. My father. Who is not here. Who isn’t texting me back.
The room stirs as someone walks in the door. And while I am too far in the back and too short to see who it is, he is making a big impression. What kind of impression I’m not sure. But there is a unanimous gasp as he enters the room in what sounds like expensive Italian leather wing-tipped shoes, clacking on the tile floor in measured steps.
People recognize him. It’s the only reason for that reaction. And as much as I’d like to fade into the wallpaper to observe objectively, I find myself wanting to know who he is. Who is the man that thinks he is going to replace my father as CEO of our family company? And where did he get the gall?
Nobody speaks, including the mystery man. In fact, the entire room falls silent, aside from speculative whispers. I decide to peel myself away from the shadows and stand on my tiptoes to get a look. All I can make out from the back of the room is hair. Raven-black, dark as night hair, and…silver temples.
