Page 23 of Prince of Wrath

“I had something to handle.”

“Right, I know.” He runs a hand over his nape. “It’s just, I’ve been holding the fort for fifteen minutes, and they’re not exactly delightful guests.”

“I know. Thanks, by the way.”

“Yeah, well, gotta do what we gotta do.” Hands in his slacks pockets, his black suit gives him a secret-agent vibe I am sure is quite popular with our female demographic. “Everything’s all right? You’re ready?” I look out the window at all those skyscrapers, at this city belonging to us, our shares and assets sinking deeper claws into every major business here. Cops on our payroll and entire mafia rings playing close to us, depending on our funds to keep the city clean from dirty business while making sure theirs can run too. We can all make it work as long as everyone is satisfied and no one eats more than they can chew.

Nate and I tolerate shady businesses as long as they keep their affairs in order and we do not end up with gunshots all over neighborhoods. If I allow them to run, they do. If I do not, they fall, like they did when I cleaned up my father’s work before me and the depraved businesses he allowed to grow roots here. No women and no children are allowed to be hurt in this city. But if men want to dip their toes into dark waters, may God have mercy on them. Checking my phone one last time, I scan Ella’s shape through the camera. She’s half asleep under the sheets, her lashes resting against her cheeks, her mouth slightly parted. Sleep makes her look younger. Fragile in a way that does something vicious to my chest. I lock the screen and slide the phone into my pocket. Then I turn toward the door and walk out. Nate follows me with his usual nonchalant step and an almost slappable grin. Cool under pressure, both of us, though his version leans toward insolence while mine settles into a cold demeanor that would make any psychopath envy me. For once, I am grateful to own my company. Not every CEO has that privilege. Most are held by the throat by shareholders, boards, votes, and men in suits who use words like confidence when they mean to strike you in the back. I am not most CEOs. Still, ownership does not mean immunity.

I still have a handful of investors who trusted me, who put money into the Ashford empire on a smaller scale, but still enough to matter. Men and women who believed in the strength of our name. They need reassurance. So do the employee representatives, who matter more to me than any investor. They need to know their jobs are safe and their families are taken care of. That the company is not collapsing because its owner lost his mind liquidating assets overnight. Beyond them, there are peers. Other CEOs. Banks. Insurance representatives. Lenders. Partners. People who do not need the full truth, but a logical reason. Because even if the market isn’t a person, it behaves like one. I need to stop the bleeding, restore trust, and remind everyone that Ashford Holdings still stands. That I still stand.

“Ladies. Gentlemen.” I stand at the head of the massive oval table while thirty suits stare back at me, half seated and half standing because there are not enough chairs. Nate leans against the windows behind them, arms crossed, playing bored because bored means unbothered, and unbothered means we are not bleeding as badly as they fear.

“As I’m sure you’ve all noticed,” I begin, “Ashford Holdings had an eventful morning.” A few mouths tighten. No one laughs, though. “Our stock took a severe hit. I’m not here to deny it. You know better than me how fast rumors move around here. Analysts with no access are drawing dubious conclusions. And judging by the number of calls I ignored over the last twelve hours, some of you assumed that meant I had…” My hand twitches. “Lost control.” I let that sit, floating in the air for anyone to even try to accuse me of it. Scanning left and right, slowly, like a hunter smelling fear, I take in the room. “You assumed wrong.” No one moves. I click the remote in my hand. The screen behind me lights up with the first slide, displaying a graphic of our current numbers.

“The liquidations were fast, but they were also limited. My personal yacht was nonessential and unrelated to the professional side of Ashford Holdings. The Fenwick building was no longer aligned with our long-term development strategy. As for the Cleerstalk building, it gave us prestige but offered no real value. Those assets are gone.” Nate glances down to hide his almost-smile. He knows exactly how much I cared about the Cleerstalk building my father had never acquired in his lifetime, the one I bought myself as my first CEO decision. But Nate also knows I would sell it again without blinking. Actually, I would sell all of it again if she needed me to do so. The thought drags me back to her.

If my heart takes off like a racing horse, I keep my face still. Do not move. Do not breathe. Do not let anyone know where your Achilles’ heel lies, because as far as I am concerned, she could be holding a glowing sign above her head right now saying Tristan Ashford’s greatest weakness. No one here should be allowed access to her. Not even through knowledge of her existence. I owe it to her to protect her for as long as she needs me to. One day, when she is ready, we will stand in the spotlight. But that is not today. I click to the next slide.

“What remains is what matters. Core holdings are intact. Payroll is covered. Existing debt obligations are covered. No pension fund has been touched and no operational account has been frozen or used to cover private exposure.” I turn toward Anna, Nelly, and Carlson, the employee representatives at the far end of the table. “There will be no layoffs as a result of this week’s sales. No delayed salaries or reduced benefits. This is not a low-level restructuring in disguise. No one who works under my name will lose their job because I was…impulsive.” Anna Keller, who represents most of the administrative staff, watches me like she is deciding whether to believe the monster at the head of the table has a conscience. Fair. “You’ll have that in writing before you leave this room.” That seems to appease her. She glances at her colleagues, all of them exchanging slight smiles of relief as her shoulders drop by a fraction. A man near the left side of the table clears his throat.

Zurich. An investor from my insurance subsidiaries, rich enough to swim in dollar bills, but not enough to decide how the wind blows.

“Mr. Ashford, with respect, reassurance is appreciated, but the market is responding to scale. I mean… Haven’t watched the news? We’re not talking about minor sales. I’m losing a shit ton of money and I’m extremely displeased about it.”

“I’m aware, Mr. Zurich, but you’re going to have to trust me here and focus on long-term strategy, not short-term concern.”

“It’s asking a lot.” His jaw tightens. Nate’s grin widens by half an inch. I continue before Zurich can decide how brave he wants to be. “The market saw speed and called it distress. It’s incorrect. Distress is selling what you need because you have no options. I sold what I could afford to lose because liquidity, at that time was of the essence.”

“At that time?” someone asks. There it is. A slight vibration of confused voices, all emerging around the same word, comes to my ears. Why? Why now? Why so much? Why this impulsive carnage on a normally steady ship? I will forever remember this second when my body betrayed me, for what seems to happen much too often since I met Ella. My heart, yet again, does something stupid and violent against my bones. So much that I swear if I were bare-chested, I could look down and see the organ pulsing against my skin, daring me to ignore it. Lowering the remote to the table, I focus on keeping my voice sharp and direct.

Ella is not a topic of discussion.

“The reason for the timing is private.”

Zurich leans back. “May I remind you that private decisions become public concerns when they impact so many parties?” My eyes move to him, and the room cools twenty degrees.

“Like I said, no value is affected in the long-term prospect. However, if you left the ship right now, Mr. Zurich, I would have no objection. But I would highly recommend you consider how low my patience is and how good my memory remains.” His mouth forms a straight line as I reclaim order in my ranks. You can be human and care about your employees while still being able to command and maintain order.

“So you won’t tell us…why,” he pushes again.

“Since when do we have to give you our exact strategies and action plan, Zurich?” Nate chuckles, back against the wall with that grin that could charm even the worst opponent.

He pouts, crossing his arms. “Business is personal when it ripples over thousands of people. It would only be fair to share your true motives.” My pulse slams once. Palm flat on the wood, threatening to turn into a fist. My hand shakes as the veins swell, and Nate squeezes my shoulder once. Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale.

“I understand your willingness to grasp the depth of my decision-making, but I’m asking this of all of you. Have I ever given you a reason not to trust my leadership?” Silence settles. Faces shake their heads, answering the truth: for the last decade, I have been living and breathing Ashford, serving my employees as I should, unlike my father.

“Mr. Zurich, the reason is not up for discussion.” He opens his mouth, but stops, nodding once. Good. The last thing I need is animosity in my ranks. “A statement will be provided to the press to ensure the market calms down, and you can all go back to your duties. Do not hesitate to reach out to Nate if you have any questions. Thank you all.” I nod, hand behind my back, as people stand hesitantly and exit the meeting room. My phone rings. Ella is still sleeping, but my mother’s number appears on the screen as Nate winces.

“This one will be less fun than the meeting, huh?” he taunts, hands in his pockets. An investor waits for him with questions, and I head out toward my office, phone in hand, as Kathy, my assistant, gives me a thumbs-up while I pass her desk. I won’t deny it. Having my people in my corner in this storm is much appreciated.

“Honey,” Mother’s voice, airy and floating, calls to me as I hear water dripping behind her. I would not put it past her to be calling from her bathtub. “Tell me you’re all right, love. I’ve seen strange shapes in my dreams, and my neck has been hurting badly since then.” Classic Mother move. At least she has not used the angel card yet. That one is hard to handle. I try to keep an open mind about my mother’s beliefs, but between the crystals, mediums, ancient chants, and the occasional visit from the dead murmuring prophecies at night, I am not always sure where to stand.

“Since when do you watch the news?”

“I don’t, my gardener did though.” Since my father never kept her in the loop, I am appreciative of her respectful stance toward my work. “Forgive me, love, but…does it have anything to do with…Ella?”

Touché.