Before I can even process what the hell just happened, Ollie’s rapping on my door.
“Bad news,” he pants. “Trafalgar Lifestyle Stores sent back their comments on our indicative offer.”
“Finally,” I hiss through gritted teeth, frustration levels already maxed out from my showdown with Gemma. “Well, go on then. Don’t tell me they have an issue with the price.”
“Nope. They’ve objected to . . . everything else. Except the core purchase price, that is.”
I go still, my eyes narrowing. “Come again?”
“They’ve rejected all our terms,” Ollie says, voice tight. “The offshoring plans, the closures, operational restructuring—they don’t seem to have agreed with any of our strategic recommendations for streamlining the company. Hell, they even took issue with how we operate our own business.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” I snap, yanking the ridiculously thick document from Ollie’s hands.
I flip through this joke of a response, my jaw clenching tighter with each page. Every recommendation, every proposal my team crafted to save TLS from financial oblivion under Sir Whitmore’s outdated leadership—rejected.
They want to bury their heads in the sand? Fine. Watch how that plays out. I put together a strategy that keeps the main business in Britain, which was his core stipulation for the company. But you have to give and take a little, for fuck’s sake.
This is a global market. You can’t expect to run a business this size and turn a profit when your costs are through the roof compared to your competitors. It’s simple math—even a schoolkid could understand it.
This is a giant “fuck you” to everything we’ve proposed. If I wasn’t dead set on acquiring this company, I’d tell them to go fuck themselves right back.
I’ve got all the numbers, all the facts, all the projections. On paper, I’m not just the best choice, I’m the only choice that doesn’t end with TLS being worth less than it already is. And that should be the only thing that matters when it comes to deciding which deal is the most legitimate.
But it’s clear that logic and fiscal intelligence are no longer the prevailing factors for Sir Whitmore. He’s not just rejecting my firm’s superior strategy and resources—he’s rejecting me.
I know damn well if this exact same bid had Alastair Charles Harrington’s name at the bottom instead of mine, Sir Whitmore would be creaming his tweed pants to accept it.
This is a point of resistance I haven’t encountered before in business.
He doesn’t give a shit about the final offer. He just doesn’tlikeme. And he’s willing to lose money over it, just to go with Alastair and his blue-blood pedigree. I, on the other hand, am bluecollar through and through, despite what my ten-thousand-pound tailored suits say.
Alastair knows how to play Whitmore’s game. He’ll feed the old man what he wants to hear, even though when the dust settles, he’ll tear the company apart just as I would.
For the first time, I need something that often doesn’t matter in this game.
I need to beliked.
Perhaps Gemma’s diary of disdain opened my eyes.
Because on some level, I realize that everyone who does my bidding, celebrates my wins, and cashes their fat bonus checks—they might respect me, they might fear me, but they don’t like me.
And for my employees, that’s fine. I don’t need to be liked. I just need them to perform. But with Whitmore? I need him to like me. I need him to trust me.
I’ve been focused on the bottom line, but it’s clear now I need to start playing a different game.
“I’d really like to get a copy of that.” Edward chuckles, his deep voice laced with way too much amusement for my liking. He gives his scotch a swirl, the amber liquid catching the light and throwing off golden sparks. “Have it framed for reference. Your HR manager’s quite the wordsmith. Perhaps she missed her calling as a stand-up comedian specializing in CEO roasts.”
I glare at my oldest friend, who’s been having a field day with Gemma’s little burn book for the past half hour. I’ve never seenthe bastard so bloody entertained. It’s Friday night and we both decided to grab a drink after hitting the gym; to take the edge off after a hell of a week.
Edward Cavendish, as posh as Alastair fucking Charles Harrington but without the stick up his ass. We’ve been friends since he swooped in to save my scrawny hide from Alastair’s boot back in school.
“She’s right, of course,” Edward continues, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “You do tend to act like you’re the King of England.”
My eyes narrow to slits. “I work hard, and I expect my staff to do the same. I don’t play games. My demands are clear as fucking crystal. My staff are the highest paid in London. And now I’m acting like the King of England?”
“Actually,” he muses, scanning my phone, “now that I think about it, comparing you to the king is a bit of a stretch. He’s far more dignified and refined. I do hope I’m present if she ever makes good on her threats to strangle you with your own tie, though. Wouldn’t miss that for the world.”
“Give me that back,” I growl, snatching my phone from his hands.
