I sigh with overwhelming relief. ‘You have a Bushell and Faith clause in the Articles.’
‘A what?’ he asks, irritation lining his voice.
‘A Bushell and Faith clause. You’ve got enhanced voting rights on the matter of your removal.’
‘English, Scarlett.’
‘Sorry. Your shares count for three votes each when there’s a vote to remove you as a director. How many shares do you have?’
He leans forward, his hands interlocked, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘25 per cent.’
I feel myself grin. ‘Your shares count as seventy five votes. They can’t remove you.’
‘Are you sure?’ Williams asks.
‘Yes. I’m sure.’ I turn to Gregory, who’s resting his forehead in his hands, and slide Nick’s letter across the coffee table, moving it into his field of vision. ‘Tell him to go fuck himself.’
Gregory’s head darts up, as shocked as I am at my pottymouth. Then he turns on that half-smile of his and I’m putty. ‘I’ll do just that. You should watch your language, lady.’
‘So Sandy tells me,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to attend the meeting today either.’
‘Oh no, believe me, I’ll be at that goddamn meeting and Nick Henshaw will be told exactlyhowto fuck himself.’ There’s nothing funny about the blackness of Gregory’s irises now. ‘What time is it?’
Lawrence checks his shiny, gold Rolex. ‘Half-past eleven.’
‘Right. Scarlett, can you throw together a letter of resignation before twelve?’
My brow furrows, questioning.
‘Not for me,’ he confirms, rising from the sofa and fastening one button of his suit jacket then arranging his cuffs so that his pale-blue shirt hangs ever so slightly longer than his slick, charcoal jacket. ‘Nick Henshaw will be resigning as a director at noon.’ He leaves his words hanging as he makes for a dramatic exit from his office.
‘Gregory, wait.’
He turns to face me just before he reaches the door.
‘Are you sure that’s wise? Whilst Nick is a director and shareholder of the company, he won’t do anything to damage his own investment. If you force him to go, he could expose you. If he does that, it’s not just the reputation of this company that would suffer.’
Gregory swallows. There’s a shred of doubt in his mind. ‘Trust me, he won’t be doing that.’
He opens the door and leaves the room, then just as quickly reopens the door. ‘Scarlett, in case I forget to tell you later, you are oneamazingwoman.’
Despite the raging fire burning in my cheeks, my heart bursts.God,I love him.
‘Here you go.’ I hand the letter of resignation to Gregory. ‘Just needs a signature.’
He folds the letter by three and tucks it into his inside pocket.
We take the lift as a foursome down to the twenty-seventh floor and make our way to the boardroom. The three men already sitting at the far end of the oversized mahogany table stand as we enter. Gregory doesn’t offer his usual introduction, nor does he exchange pleasantries, but he inclines his head, gesturing for me to take a seat to his left at the head of the table.
I dislike the three directors already. Scouring their faces, I attempt to determine who’s who. One of the men does actually look French in a way I can’t quite pinpoint. He has a slight frame and golden skin; he’s not at all bad looking. His hair is swept back, black with just the smallest sign of introductory greys, his thick, black eyebrows as yet untarnished.
‘Are you going to enlighten us?’ One man leans forward on the oval table and stares at Gregory whilst glancing in my direction. This must be Nick, the ring leader. Mid-forties and broad, he clearly looks after himself. He’s not good-looking but he is striking. A woman would be forgiven for taking a second glance. His tousled, dirty-blond hair suits his tan which is, at best, uncommon for November in England. His blue-grey eyes are dishonest and cold but strangely handsome at the same time.
‘This is Scarlett Heath, my legal advisor.’ Gregory checks his watch as he speaks, a small demonstration of how highly inconvenient this little gathering of Nick’s is. ‘You summoned us, Nick; let’s move this along.’
Nick scoffs, raising a supercilious smirk to the ceiling. In my periphery, Gregory is focussing, straight-faced, on the nemesisat the opposite end of the table. There’s no love lost between these men, that much is clear.
‘We’re here to tell you that your time as our liege has come to the cliff’s edge… and I’m about to kick you off.’
