She’s right. On both counts.
But I can’t stop.
“I’ve been in this business for eight years,” I continue. “I’ve built something from nothing while people like Martin Hale sat on the sidelines and waited to pick over the corpse. And now I’m supposed to apologize because some employee leaked a slide deck that lacks context? Because our board segmentation strategy isn’t warm and fuzzy enough for social media?”
“Nico,” Elspeth tries to interrupt.
“No.” I slam my hand on the table. Everyone flinches. Even Bree. “I’m not done. This strategy is exactly what Martin wants. He wants us to look defensive. He wants us to look like we’re in damage control mode. Because every day we spend apologizing is another day he gets to position himself as the alternative.”
I turn back to Paloma. She looks like she’s about to cry.
“This isn’t a media strategy,” I spit. My voice has gone cold. The way it gets when I’m about to say something I’ll regret. But I can’t stop myself. “This is reactiveincompetence. And honestly, I’m starting to question whether you’re actuallyqualifiedto handle a crisis of this magnitude.”
Paloma’s eyes are blinking to fast. Her hands are trembling slightly as she gathers her papers.
“I’ll— I’ll revise the approach,” she says quietly.
“Do that,” I intone.
The meeting ends. People scatter like I’m contagious. Dashiell mutters something about needing to check on something. Elspeth gives me a look that says we’re going to have a conversation later. Yael practically runs out the door. Even Bree flees.
Good, let her see who I really am.
I stand at the head of the empty conference table, wondering when exactly I became this person.
The door clicks shut.
Then opens again.
I turn, expecting to find Elspeth coming back inside to tell me what an asshole I am.
It’s Bree.
She closes the door behind her. The accusing way she looks at me... it shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
“That was cruel,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“What you just did to Paloma.” Her voice is quiet but steady. “She’s paralyzed because you won’t let her do her job. Every time she brings you a strategy, youtear it apart. Every time she tries to execute, you override her. You’re so busy controlling everything that you’re making it worse.”
I stare at her. This secretary. This woman I can’t stop thinking about.
Standing in my conference room.
Telling me I’m wrong.
“You’re out of line, Ms. Dawson,” I tell her.
“Maybe.” She doesn’t flinch. “But someone needed to say it.”
The anger in me wars with something else. Respect. Attraction.
The desperate urge to grab her and kiss her until we both forget about board meetings and media strategies and everything except the way she felt against me that night.
Instead I say, “Get the fuck out.”
She holds my stare for three long seconds. Her chin lifts defiantly.
