Trillion - Winter Renshaw Page 0,4

family’s company, folds his hands.

“I’m well aware. Yes. Thank you.” I bite my tongue and hope he doesn’t pick up on the condescension in my tone. This absurd legacy clause is the only thing holding up the takeover and so far neither of us have been willing to budge. It’s difficult to see eye-to-eye when your opposition is an incredulous asshole on a power trip. “But from one businessman to another, I’d like to remind you that everything is negotiable.”

He leans forward in his oversized leather chair, head tilted, polite smile painting his aging face, and he clears his throat. “My great-grandfather founded this company.”

I nod, as if I’d never heard the name Ames along the likes of Astors, Rockefellers, and Rothschilds. I listen, silent as if I’ve no idea what it’s like to run a company founded by generations of familial predecessors.

“At the end of the day, it’s a family business,” Nolan says. “It can’t switch hands unless I know for certain it’ll continue to stay a family business.”

The idea of an environment-demolishing corporation being a “family business” is laughable at best. But this man is the kind of delusional with whom one can’t argue.

I shoot Broderick a look. He pinches the bridge of his nose. We both know this is bullshit. Likely a stall tactic. If Nolan really wanted to sell, he’d sell. We’ve had enough off-the-record conversations with board members to know they’re ready to unload. Steel is holding steady but oil is at a twenty-year low. They can’t compete with the Saudis in this market. They’re ready to take their money to greener pastures and they’d have done it eight months ago when I initially offered, but I’m not interested in 49%.

I’m an all-or-nothing man.

“I’m willing to double my last offer,” I say, “which, we can all agree, was remarkably generous.”

One could even argue it was stupid generous.

Nolan peers at his folded hands. Still. Soundless. Either the conference call has glitched and they’re frozen, or he’s counting dollar signs. A second later, he finally moves, twisting the glinting platinum and diamond wedding band on his left ring finger, sliding it off then on again.

“Mr. Westcott, do you mind if we place you on mute for a moment?” A woman in oversized pearls and a charcoal suit stands.

“Not at all,” I say.

She reaches for the black device in the center of the table. The sound disappears and the screen goes dark. Nothing but a flashing icon that shows we’re on hold.

“Can’t wait to be done with this prick.” I point my pen toward the screen. “At this point, I should make him pay me for wasting my fucking time.”

Broderick exhales. “Just be patient. It’s going to happen. You always get what you want.”

I sink back into my chair.

He’s right.

I always get what I want.

In fact, I don’t recall a time when I haven’t.

Glancing to my left, I take in a view of the somber Chicago skyline outside and contemplate my weekend plans. When I return my attention to my legal pad, I’ve jotted a name on the lower right corner of the first page. I don’t remember doing it, but it’s undeniably my handwriting.

Sophie Bristol.

I must have written it so I could remember. With over sixty thousand employees, I couldn’t begin to remember anyone’s names outside my tight-knit circle of trusted executives.

The screen fills with the Ames baker’s dozen once more and the sound returns. A handful of indiscernible whispers. Shuffled papers. Cleared throats. Creaking chairs.

I circle Sophie’s name to remind myself to check into her later—mostly out of curiosity. Her face—and body—suddenly adulterate my focus, and very rarely does something distract me to this degree.

“Have we reached a decision?” I ask.

Broderick gives me a subtle wink, as if he’s certain this is the moment Nolan finally relents after eight agonizingly tortuous months of back-and-forth negotiations.

“Not quite. I have a proposition for you,” Nolan says. “If you’re open to hearing it.”

“Of course.” I sit up.

Broderick shifts in his seat, listening, taking notes as Nolan lays out an offer I never could have anticipated.

Nolan Ames is holding strong on the legacy clause. He wants me to “find someone,” to “settle down,” to get fucking married and start a family. He’s also graciously giving me two years because according to him, “you’re thirty-five and your best years are behind you anyway.” He even had the audacity to say I’d thank him someday.

Thank him for what? For a money-hungry trophy wife? For a kid that’ll inevitably be raised by a