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Alessandra
I’m nearly late as I walk through the threshold of the restaurant.
“Hi there Ms. Dean, Mr. Ingram is waiting for you just over there.”
“Thank you, Andrew. Has he been waiting long?”
“No ma’am, he’s only just arrived five minutes ago.”
“Perfect,” I say, slipping him a few twenties for his hospitality.
I do most of my business meetings here, so I see the same employees a lot of the time.
I scan the room, looking for the famous Mattheo Ingram. This won’t be the first time I’ve seen him, though I haven’t met him personally. It was from afar at a meeting when I was just another member of a separate branch ofRose.
Despite being daddy’s little girl and the heir to the Dean family estate, I wasn’t just placed at the top of the food chain, as much as the rumors said otherwise. No, I personally requested the most menial job that the company offered. Dad then found an opening available for a janitor.
Of course, my aims were higher, and so while working at night, I attended college by day. It wasn’t glamorous or easy, but it was an invaluable experience.
Many things go into making a business thrive, but a key one that I learned early on was efficiency. If you only spend time in your oversized office and only assess information given to you by an ass kissing assistant, you likely lack both knowledge and perspective.
During that time I worked with a man nearly three times my age who’d worked for the company his whole life. The sheer amount of unattended-to faults in the building he knew about was staggering. From something as minute as a chronically faulty network in a specific division of the company, to things as drastic as the electrical system being blatantly not up to code. All you needed was the perspective of a quiet old man with the time to listen and the curiosity to look.
I wondered how things had gotten so bad and why nothing had been reported. He laughed and said that they all were. The people above him just didn’t care. He was a janitor, what did he know?
From there I climbed the long ladder up the company. Each rung, I shed the company of its problems, one department at a time. Due to my tactics, people began to fear me, but I was fine with that- I didn’t need to be liked. I was going to ensure my company prosper, and my efforts bore fruit.
Since I clawed my way to the position of CEO,Rosehas only grown. I’ve raised our stocks and expansion of our reach to six of the seven continents. Once we staked our claim, we’ve only further expanded into every major city in the world.
Looking back, I feel only pride. I’d done before the age of thirty what most of my peers don’t do in their entire life. I’d taken a business that my family cherished and was able to bring it to untold heights.
That, and I’d given up very little in the process. I’d spent most of my twenties doing what twentyyearsare supposed to do. For every board meeting there were two parties. For every deal broached and sealed with adjacent firms, were two three-ways with men whose names I never got.
Though that brings to mind my dating history which is tumultuous at best. I’ve experienced many men, but have I really been in a real relationship with one? Maybe once or twice depending on how one classifies a relationship. It wasn’t like I was particularly aloof. It was more that there’s a severe lack of men who can handle me.
I threaten nearly every aspect of a man’s masculinity. Being five foot eleven makes every guy self-conscious- and don’t even get me started on me in heels.
Of course, I’m aware that my personality is abrasive, so unless the man has a spine, I’d just walk all over him. Lastly, you can count the people who make more money than me in the hundreds, so I’m pretty much guaranteed to be the primary bread-winner.
To sum it up, most of the guys I’ve actually ‘dated’ have been whiny insecure babies who get bitchy when they find out my metaphorical dick is bigger than theirs. Which you can imagine isn’t the sexiest thing in the world.
But this brings us to Mattheo Ingraham. Now that is a man who can handle me however, he damn well pleases. I’ve yet to make his acquaintance, but if the rumors are true, he’s pretty much perfect.
I don’t usually dress up when I work. Not to say I look sloppily, I actually spend a lot of time on my appearance, but not like this. I mixed in a little bit of party me into the usual costume of work me.
At these types of meetings I tailor my look to the man across the table, and this time is no exception. I wanted something to loudly accentuate every curve, not subtly suggest their existence. I wanted to set myself up to milk the best deal out of him, and hopefully something else while doing so.
When I come up to the table, I internally remind myself to act professional, but my memories of seeing him didn’t do the man justice. His face is that of a Greek god, with full lips, striking eyes and cheekbones that could cut glass. More so, he’s like a statue of a Greek god. His expression is stern, almost to the point of it being interpreted as anger.
His posture is both active and relaxed. He radiates a sense of readiness, like he’s in his element waiting for me to join him. But it isn’t like he’s eagerly waiting for me, more so like he’s a shark resting below the water’s surface, waiting for me to jump inside.
When he sees me, he stands up from the table and offers me his hand. Always a good sign.
