Chapter 7
My dreams were awful. Spreadsheets bleeding real blood. Me, a lost little orphan like something out of a Dickens novel, begging on the streets and peering into derelict buildings to find shelter from the rain.
I get up and make myself a cup of coffee, willing the nightmares to fade out, which they mercifully start to do. I take the coffee out to my balcony. Grace is still asleep.
Sitting on the cushioned couch that gets the early morning beam of sun, I start to feel a little better. My climbing plants frame the view, giving the space a romantic charm. A breeze stirs my little herb garden and I can smell the thyme.
I always feel closest to my mother when I’m out here.
Even though I can hear the honking traffic and the sounds of New York City waking up below me, this space always feels so peaceful.
Up here, nothing can touch me. I can almost imagine that the world isn’t crumbling into a pile of rubble all around me.
I come out here when I need to feel her presence. To think about what my life might have looked like if she was still in it. And to remember how it used to feel when she was infusing everything with the unfiltered love she always surrounded me with.
Mama, if you can hear me, please help me. Help me figure out what to do. Help me make the right decision.
Looking out over the city skyline, to the European-looking water tower on the roof of the building next door, I take in the familiarity and comfort of the view. And I contemplate my options.
One, I can try to bring in one or more shareholders who will help me service the debt for a share of the company.
The problem with that option is that the company has a lot of debt. Eighteen million dollars of it. A number I prefer not to think about too closely. Once upon a time it was worth seventy million. But times have changed.
I’d have to offer the majority of the company’s shares to make it an attractive enough proposition. Which means I’d lose control. Which means I’d be at the mercy of the new shareholders. They might sell the company, possibly for an unreasonably low price.
Two, I can sell the company myself and try to get as much as I can for it. But even if I sell at market value, I’ll be left with so much debt I’ll have to sell my apartment.
Best case scenario: I sell the company for way above market value for it and get to keep my apartment. This, however, is about as likely as me getting a new pet Pegasus to fly around on at sunset every evening.
Three, I can wait until we go bankrupt and lose everything.
And my fourth and final option: I can hope that by some miracle our share prices suddenly skyrocket.
But let’s face it, in today’s economy, I might as well wish for Ireland to drift across the Atlantic and park up next to the Statue of Liberty, for leprechauns to hand me their pot of gold as they build a quaint but sturdy bridge that connects my balcony to the green fields so I can visit my mother’s grave whenever I feel like it.
And my father’s too, once I get over being mad at him for not putting the apartment in a trust, like any normal person would have.
(My mother told my father to not even consider burying her ashes anywhere but in the County Cork dirt or she’d haunt him for the rest of time.
In the end, I decided to bury my father’s ashes right next to hers because he loved her more than anything and by then there was no one left in his family to complain about it.)
So, no matter what I decide to do, all four options add up the same.
I’m going to lose everything.
I honestly don’t even care about the company. I’d gladly give it away if it meant I could keep my apartment.
My apartment is my life, my world and it contains every memory I’ve ever had. I had hoped it would also contain my future. And my own little girl, with strawberry-blond curls and eyes the color of a County Cork summer day.
But that’s not going to happen. Keeping my home, no matter how many times I crunch the numbers, is not on the list of my options.
The thought makes me once again want to pound my fists on the ground and burst into tears.
But I don’t. I can’t. I haven’t cried since before my mother died. Not even as a grief-stricken four-year-old. Not a single tear.
Instead, I use my sorrow. I channel it into figuring out what I’m going to do.
Everything in my apartment will have to be sold too, of course.
All my mother’s beautiful pieces and all of mine. Each one has all the milestones of my life etched into the marble and the wood. Soon to be sold to the highest bidder.
I’m trying to find a bright side in all this because it’s what I do. But none are coming to mind at this exact moment.
Maybe it’ll be good to start completely over. Yes. A refresh. Selling the place that contains all my tragic memories will give me a new, fresh beginning, free from pain. Wide open.
Except that it also contains the beautiful memories. The happy ones. The ones full of love.
Anyway.
Reality bites, as they say.
It’ll be fun , I try to convince myself. I’ll find a swanky new place to live. Somewhere cool and funky. Modern and artsy instead of old and history-seeped.
I won’t be able to afford to continue with my MBA for a while until I figure out how I’m going to survive at the most basic levels, but who cares? Maybe the MBA was never meant to be.
Maybe, instead, I’ll become an…interior designer. Don’t you need money to do that?
Or…a writer, of articles about home decorating. As if. You’ve never written anything besides spreadsheets and financial analyses.
Or…an entry-level clerk at a bank. That’s more like it. I mean, who would even hire you? You inherited a company you’re about to lose. Hardly impressive.
Damn it.
I sigh, get up, take a shower, get dressed and pour myself another coffee. I’m about to start drying my hair when my phone rings.
I check the screen. Unknown caller.
“Hello?”
There’s a pause. Then the deep, strong voice of a man. One brief question tells me he’s extremely self-assured and also pushy. “Is this L. Emerson Ashton?”
“Yes, it is.”
He sounds almost flustered. “You’re not quite what I was expecting.”
“You thought L. Emerson was a man? Yeah, I get that sometimes.”
“Right. Forgive me. Ms. Ashton, my name is Cash Maddox. I’m the founder and CEO of Invested Enterprises.” Cash’s voice is smooth, oozing a smug charm that immediately puts me on edge.
I recognize the name, of course. Invested Enterprises is well-known as being at the top of the New York heap.
They get written up all the time in the financial papers.
It’s run by three extremely successful brothers—who have been called some of “New York’s most eligible bachelors.
” They used to work for their family business, Maddox Equities, one of the most profitable investment companies of all time, before going out on their own.
Cash Maddox must be one of those brothers.
It’s a little intimidating. “What can I do for you, Mr. Maddox?”
“I was very sorry to hear about your father’s passing. My father also passed away suddenly so I can relate to how difficult that must be.”
“Oh. I…” I wasn’t expecting him to say that. It catches me off guard and, after the nightmares and the harsh early morning realizations, it hits me hard. But I hold my voice steady. “I appreciate that.”
“I’ll get straight to the point, Ms. Ashton. We’re interested in buying Ashton Holdings. We’re prepared to make a cash offer. We’ve drafted the offer and a contract, which I’d like to present to you and discuss in person. Are you able to meet with us on Monday morning?”
Holy shit. Could this be it? The answer to all my prayers?
These guys are big players with a lot of money to spend. “What’s the offer?”
“As I said?—”
“Mr. Maddox, if you could let me know what you’re offering, I can then confirm whether or not it’s worth meeting.” I’m used to dealing with overconfident men. And I need to know.
“Fifteen million.”
I swallow. Fifteen million.
Ashton Holdings owes eighteen million. My apartment is worth three million—or, on a good day maybe 3.
2 minus broker fees, which are insane. The lawyers will also have to be paid.
That means that I would just about—maybe—break even.
Or possibly be several hundred thousand in the red with no income and no place to live.
Six months ago I’d never even thought about the kinds of numbers I’m casually discussing right now.
With a billionaire, no less. But circumstance forced me to get up close and personal very quickly with the fact that I was personally staring down the barrel of a shitload of debt with an unnerving amount of zeroes at the end of it.
I’m about to lose my home. Is it too much to ask to at least have a tiny bit left over so I can at least try to start again?
To do that, I’m going to need to play hardball with one of the biggest sharks in Manhattan.
I know I won’t get the number I’m about to ask for, but fuck it.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Maddox, the lowest I could possibly go would be twenty million.
” I’m thinking about taxes, maintenance, insurance. And no income.
“Ms. Ashton, Ashton Holdings currently owes 18.3 million dollars and it hasn’t made a profit in almost two years.”
“I’m aware of that, Mr. Maddox.” 18.3? Where’d that extra three hundred thousand come from?
And why am I inclined to believe Cash Maddox’s estimates are more correct than my own accountants’?
“At its highest value it was worth over seventy million and we’re confident we can restore much of that value with new management. ”
“New management? You’re referring to yourself?” Like it’s a joke.
Prick . I feel my Irish temper flare and it’s just what I need. “As a matter of fact, yes. My father was not forthcoming with all the numbers before he passed and I can admit there has been an adjustment period. But the company has huge potential and I’m determined to realize it.”
“It’s a sinking ship. I’m offering you a lifeline.”
Actually, that’s not a lifeline at all. It’s a one-way ticket to rock bottom. And I’m not prepared to give in that easily. “You must see some of Ashton Holdings’ potential too, Mr. Maddox, if you’re prepared to purchase it, holes and all.”
There’s a pause, and when he continues I get the feeling he admires my fighting spirit.
He may not realize I’m fighting because I’m about to be destitute.
Or maybe he does. “I’ll have to talk to my CFO.
He’s been very firm about the fifteen million dollar offer.
But he may be—if we’re lucky—negotiable.
How about you come in on Monday morning and we can discuss it. ”
Just the thought makes my heart feel like it’s about to pump its way out of my chest. Two or possibly all three pit bulls versus little old me.
But surely they expected a little bit of back and forth.
They’ve come in with a low offer and no doubt they’re expecting me to counter it.
It’s not like they can’t afford to put a measly five million more into the pot.
The Maddox brothers are famously worth multiple billions each.
“That would be fine,” I say stiffly. “But please be aware that yours isn’t the only offer on the table. ”
“Ah, so Abundance already offered.”
He knows about that? “Yes.” I can only hope he doesn’t know they only offered ten million. An offer I wouldn’t even consider.
“I’m afraid I’m tied up all day today or I’d move the meeting forward. Ms. Ashton, are you able to confirm that you’ll hold off on accepting Abundance’s offer until after you’ve met with myself and my CFO on Monday?”
Is this a trick? If I say yes, will I be admitting Abundance made a much lower offer? Anyway, the damage might already be done but I have no choice but to forge ahead. “Yes, I can do that. I’m still in discussions with Abundance’s CEO,” I bluff.
I can’t tell if I can hear amusement in his voice or if I’m imagining it.
“Great. I’m confident we can come up with a number you’re happy with, Ms. Ashton.
If we can talk my CFO into it, that is. I was prepared to offer more, but he won’t budge.
He’s stubborn as all hell. You and I have our work cut out for us.
” Is this some kind of scare tactic? At this point I’m dreading meeting with his evil CFO. “How’s ten o’clock on Monday?”
“That’s fine.”
“Do you need the address?”
“No. I know where you are.” Everyone knows where they are. They’re the most sought-after company to work for in New York City and are written up at least once a week with glowing testimonials about how great it is to be a part of their young, hip, talented team.
“Perfect. See you then, Ms. Ashton. Enjoy your weekend.”
The line goes dead before I can even say, “You too.” Jerk.