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“Sure. But look.” Mitchell moves to my side and holds out a tablet so I can see it. “I spent the weekend running the numbers, and in my analysis, there are several areas just poised for expansion. This column here—”
His fingers fly over the tablet. It’s too much information for the time we have, but Mitchell barrels on like he has to tell me or he’ll die. He’s halfway through his thoughts on the next column when he takes a breath and glances at my face, eyebrows raised.
I know that look. He’s just realized that he probably talked for too long and he’s trying to gauge whether I’m irritated. My brother Emerson is the same way.Not good with people.That’s how everyone else would describe him, which is half-true, half-bullshit. He’s good with people he cares about, but he has to work at social graces. Art was always more important.
For Mitchell, that’s clearlythe numbers.
I look back down at the tablet. “And for this section, the profit margins…”
“We’re not anywhere near the ceiling.” There’s relief in Mitchell’s voice. “I thought we could sit down and get into the details, because there’s some exciting prospects here. This afternoon, maybe?”
People are taking their seats at the big meeting table. “We’ll set a time after the meeting.”
“Great.” His face lights up. He takes a seat near mine at the table.
Greg Winthrop, who I wanted to murder for flirting with Bristol at that goddamn dinner, swoops in to shake my hand and pat my shoulder. “You ready to go?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer before he strides to the head of the table. “How’s the sound on the call?” Greg asks. Someone on a giant speakerphone in the middle of the table confirms. A secretary nearby lifts her hands over the keyboard of her laptop, preparing to take notes.
This is a hell of a lot more formal than the meetings we had at Summit.
Greg runs through the meeting agenda. There’s an actual agenda.“Oh,” he says, toward the end. “It’s Maxine’s birthday today. Let’s all sayhappy birthdayto Max.”
There’s scattered applause across the table, and then quiet settles in.
“As you all know, Summit Equity is now officially part of the Hughes Financial Division.”
More applause. Louder. I give them a vague smile, ignoring the heat climbing up my face. The bruises from the warehouse haven’t totally faded, but they’re all looking at me now. I guess this is the way they do things at Hughes. Things that could have been discussed in emails are announced at huge meetings.
It’s not my favorite way to do business.
Greg gives me an encouraging gesture. “Why don’t you introduce yourself to the team? They’re all curious about our new superstar. Tell us about you. And your vision.”
Jesus, Greg. My vision? A little warning would have been nice, but oh-fucking-kay. I stand up and put my hands in my pockets. “I’m Will Leblanc, CEO of Summit Equity. Happy to be here. My goal has always been to give worthwhile ideas a worthy platform. I’m not interested in flashy, insubstantial things. I want to make a real impact on the world. That’s what we’ve been doing at Summit. We’ll do even greater things together.”
“That’s what I’mtalking about,” says Greg, and this time the applause is warm. Genuine.
But Mitchell, the numbers guy, frowns a little bit. He glances at his iPad. If he’s anything like Emerson, then he’s the bellwether of this situation. His obsession with the business might not approach the way Emerson is obsessed with art, but that frown means something.
“This week, we’re going to take concrete steps to making that vision come to life. We’re going to maximize profitsandimpact, and of course that’ll take some restructuring.”
Greg looks at me. They’re all looking at me. What the fuck is he talking about? Restructuring wasn’t part of the deal. The coffee mug feels flimsy in my hand. “Of course.”
“I knew you’d be on board. Page two of our transition plan will have the broad strokes, and—”
He starts rattling off orders.
The words blur together but they all mean the same thing. They mean that he’s chopping Summit into tiny pieces and using it for scrap while they take me for the brain trust at Hughes.
My blood feels hot. My fists ache. I want to fight someone. Greg, probably. This is not what I signed up for. He’s taking my people, siphoning them off, and there’s no outlet for the rage that’s reached a rolling boil.
I don’t stand up and call the whole thing off, though it’s a near goddamn thing. Christa would tell me to count to a hundred. I count to two hundred. At the end of the meeting, I’m up to eight hundred and ready to box the entire conference room.
The secretary finishes up her notes. People file out, chatting to one another about carving up my company like a rusted-out car. I don’t punch anyone. I should get a Nobel Peace Prize for that.
In the hall, I catch Greg by the elbow before he can pick up speed to head back to his office. “What the hell was that?”
He blinks, forehead wrinkling in what looks like genuine confusion. “Something wrong, Will?”
