“I’ll be waiting.”
I disconnect and turn to Samantha. She’s flushed, eyes bright. “That was incredible,” she says.
“That was strategy.” I set down my phone. “What did you observe?”
“You were brutal. But also fair. You didn’t let him hide behind excuses, but you gave him a real solution.” She’s animated now, gesturing with her hands. “And that deadline tactic—reducing the offer if he waits—that’s brilliant. It forces a decision instead of letting him stall.”
“What else?”
“You knew exactly where he was weak. The employee retention concern. You addressed it before he could use it as leverage.” She leans forward. “How did you know that would be his sticking point?”
“Research. His father founded that company. James grew up with those employees. He cares about them more than he cares about profit.” I stand and move to the window. “In any negotiation, you need to know what the other person actually values. Then you give them that while still getting what you want.”
“So you’re giving him employee protection, and you get the company at your price.”
“Exactly.”
She’s quiet for a moment, processing. “You’re really good at this.”
I turn to look at her. “But you’re good at reading situations. That AI campaign you ran? That was understanding what people valued—philosophical legitimacy over product features—and giving them that while selling your client’s product.”
“I guess it’s the same principle.”
“It’s always the same principle. Understand what people want. Give it to them in a way that benefits you.”
She stands and moves closer. “What do you want, Grant?”
I don’t hesitate before I answer, “Right now? You.”
Her breath catches. “The call?—”
“Won’t come for at least two hours. Bradford needs time to panic before he accepts.” I close the distance between us. “That gives us time.”
“Time for what?”
“For me to show you exactly how I celebrate closing deals.”
Her laugh is breathy. “Is that so?”
“That’s so.” I back her against my desk. “Unless you’d rather continue talking about negotiation strategy.”
“I think I’ve learned enough for today.”
“Good. Come with me.”
I walk her to the bookshelf and press two fingers to a discreet panel in the walnut bookshelf. A section slides open without a sound, revealing a narrow doorway lit only by a thin amber strip along the floor.
Her lips part. “You have a panic room?”
“Something better.”
I guide her inside. The wall seals behind us with the softest click. The silence is immediate and absolute, like stepping into deep water. Recessed lighting glows low and warm.
Thick midnight carpet swallows every footstep. One entire wall is a two-way mirror looking out over the blizzard—white streaks slashing across black peaks, wind howling against glass that doesn’t even tremble.
In here, the storm is beautiful and harmless.
In the center of the room sits a single, wide ottoman upholstered in charcoal leather, low enough that when I sit, my feet stay flat on the floor.
