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“Pardon me, who was the first?”
“Gabriel Mercer, who else?” Blake slightly scoffed at the mention of the competition, so I prompted, “You seem to disagree?”
“No, sorry, Gabriel Mercer is a skillful entrepreneur,” he said. “But I wouldn’t go as far as calling him self-made…”
The skin at the back of my neck heats. To get to where I am, I bent over backward. Nothing—nothing—enrages me more than people assuming I’m sitting in the top chair because I was born wealthy. In my fourth year out of college, I took a one-million-dollar loan—not from my father, but from a venture capitalist, going through the Series A, B, and C funding ropes like any other startupper—and turned it into a ten-billion-dollar company through my hard work.
So, no, I don’t take lightly to insignificant nobodies slandering my name. I read the next paragraph, already knowing it’s only going to enrage me more.
“Why not?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call receiving an ivy-league education debt-free along with all the connections certain schools bring, and having your start-up money handed to you on a silver platter, being self-made.”
That’s it.
I slam my laptop shut and stand up. This Blake Avery chap seems to know a lot about me—at least the swellhead thinks he does—and I know exactly nothing about him.
Time for a meet-up.
I grab my suit jacket from my chair and storm out of the office.
“Call my car,” I bark to Mila.
She scrambles up from her chair, phone already in hand as she texts Tobias, my driver. “Where are we going?”
“I’m going—alone.”
“Ooooh.” She gives me a coy look. “I’m intrigued. I left you not fifteen minutes ago in a peachy mood, and now you’re as amiable as a broody Mr. Darcy forced to attend an unsophisticated country ball. Did someone prompt you to dance with a not-handsome-enough young lady?”
I only grunt in reply.
“Come on, boss, what got your panties in a bunch?”
“Not in the mood for jokes.”
“Now I’m even more curious.”
Still, I give her nothing.
“Can I know where you’ll be in case I need to track you down for something urgent?”
I mumble a non-committal, “Lower Manhattan.”
After that, we wait in silence by the elevator until the doors swish open and I get in, alone. I push the lobby button and, just as the doors are about to close again, Mila asks, “Should I wait up for you?”
3
GABRIEL
The company black SUV is waiting for me outside the building. Tobias, my driver, is holding the door open for me. I get in with a confident stride, but the moment the door closes, I clench and unclench my fists, trying to control the panic. Fighting to keep my hands steady as I fasten my seatbelt.
Deep breaths.
The moment the SUV pulls off, panic still lurches in my chest. I squish it down, hating that I have no control over my reactions. That I didn’t even notice how my hand went to clench on the door handle and is still gripping it, knuckles white with the effort. It’s been fifteen years since the accident, and I still hate being inside a car I’m not driving.
But I won’t let fear dictate my actions. I can master it. I can sit in this car without having a fit. I have to; no self-respecting CEO drives himself to business meetings. In my free time, I enjoy my luxury cars—I have no problem with fast rides when I’m the one at the wheel, the one in control, but not when I’m on the clock.
Besides, I usually use the time in the backseat to work, which in turns helps to keep me distracted from the fact that I’m inside a death trap. Win win.
