This Monday morning check-in was a stipulation to my interim role, packaged as support, yet clearly meant for evaluation.
The scent of freshly brewed tea draws me toward the kitchen, past framed photos of my mother, timeless in silk blouses and bright lipstick, alongside art worth more than the average apartment.
Sure enough, my father sits at the kitchen counter, his reading glasses perched low on his nose, his attention on the cell in his hand.
“Good morning,” I offer gently.
He glances up, his expression unreadable. “Is it?”
Ouch.
I’d prepared for disappointment, yet I didn’t expect the chill of it to crack the hardened shell of my thickened skin.
He sets his phone down. “Tea?”
I nod, grateful for the civility before what I assume is the inevitable storm.
He moves slowly, grabbing the spare cup and saucer on the counter, pouring from a glass teapot. “Take a seat.”
I settle onto a barstool across the island from him, my muscles tense despite my best efforts as he slides the cup and saucer toward me.
“I saw your press conference.”
Of course he did.
“It was necessary.” I palm the delicate china and take a sip of steaming liquid, holding the heat against my tongue in a sacrificial mark of penance.
“Why?” he asks simply.
That’s the problem with my father; he never raises his voice. His patience is the punishment. He rules conflict with calm, like a slowly building gas leak, until you’re begging for a match.
“I wanted to set the tone for my leadership.” I struggle to find the words to excuse the giant leaps I’ve made mere days after gaining power. “To draw a line in the sand.”
He sighs, slow and tired. “Isla, I know you’ve had to fight harder than most. That you’ve faced a brand of boardroom misogyny I can’t pretend to understand…”
“But?” I brace for impact.
“But you’re taking liberties too quickly. This isn’t the way to make your mark.”
I place my cup back down on the saucer, my heart thudding. “All I did was reinforce our company values.”
He cocks his head. “So you didn’t sever a relationship with one of our biggest clients without giving me a word of warning?”
I raise my chin. “I’ve given notice to ethically misaligned clients before. I’ve been doing it for years. This didn’t warrant your approval.”
“It did when it’s the Cavallo Group.”
The name stirs heat low in my belly, along with annoyance, resentment, and something else I don’t want to define.
“Well, I apologize.” I maintain my perfect posture. “But you’re not supposed to be concerning yourself with day-to-day operations. You’re on medical?—”
“This only makes me more concerned.” He speaks over me in a rare show of authority. “Maybe you’re not ready for this.”
The words hit hard.
Blunt force.
I swallow over the sudden tightness of my throat and reach for the teacup again, needing something to steady my hands. “I’m ready, Dad. I’ve been ready for a long time. It might seem like I’m moving fast, but the truth is, I’ve been preparing for years. I just never had the jurisdiction to act.”
