5. Chapter 5 #2
Sighing, I say, “We’ll have to sit down and go through my schedule later. But for now, please tell everyone I’ll be right there.”
I grab a legal pad and stride to the conference room, plastering on the confident smile that’s closed a hundred deals before this one.
“Sorry for the delay.”
Six faces turn toward me, expressions ranging from mild annoyance to outright impatience.
“We were about to leave,” says a silver-haired man I don’t recognize. “Your assistant said you were preparing some revised projections?”
Revised projections?
“Yes, of course.” I take a seat at the head of the table, buying time. “But before we get to those, I’d like to hear your thoughts on our initial proposal.”
The silver-haired man frowns. “We covered that extensively in our last meeting.”
A woman across the table taps her watch. “Mr. Plaza, we specifically came today to see the revisions we requested. If they’re not ready…”
“There’s been a slight miscommunication.” I lean forward. “My executive secretary is transitioning out of her role, and some details have been temporarily misplaced.”
The woman exchanges glances with her colleagues. “Then perhaps we should reschedule when you’re better prepared.”
“That won’t be necessary.” But they’re already gathering their things, disappointment evident.
I walk them out, making promises I’m not sure I can keep about having everything ready by next week. When they’re gone, I close my office door and lean against it.
My phone buzzes again. Once again, it’s not Elowen. It’s a text from Gage about the Singapore call, asking if I have the updated product specs.
I don’t.
I check my messages again. Still nothing from her. She’s really doing this. She really left.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s Virginia again, looking even more uncomfortable.
“Sir? I found the Morrison contract.”
My head snaps up. “Where?”
“It was in the conference room. Mrs. Plaza mentioned in her notes that you requested it be left there for your preliminary review yesterday afternoon.”
I did? Maybe. Probably. Taking the blue folder, I flip through pages of legalese I should have memorized by now.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” Virginia hovers in the doorway.
“No. Yes. Unless it’s from my wife, hold my calls. I need time to review this.”
She nods and retreats, closing the door silently behind her.
The legal jargon of the Morrison contract usually calms me. After all, it’s a language of absolute definitions and binding terms. Today, however, the words swim on the page, blurring into a headache that pounds behind my eyes.
My phone buzzes against the mahogany desktop. Damn it, I should have handed it off to Virginia to limit distractions.
Unfortunately, when I glance at the name, I’m disappointed to see Carmella Ruiz’s instead of my wife’s.
I consider letting it go to voicemail. I’m not in the mood for social niceties or industry gossip.
But then I look at my office. Files lean in stacks, my inbox is overflowing, and through the connecting door, her empty chair screams of betrayal.
So, I answer.
“Julian,” she says, her voice smooth and low, cutting through the static in my head. “I’m going to assume the rumors aren’t true, even though you’ve been ignoring my texts all morning.”
“I’m busy, Carmella,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “If this is about the Shephard acquisition—”
“It’s about you,” she interrupts. “I heard Elowen resigned. And judging by the tone of your voice, you’re currently sitting in your office, trying to single-handedly do the job of two people while pretending everything is fine.”
I stiffen. “I have it under control.”
“Do you?” She pauses, letting the question hang there. “Or do you need a drink and a conversation with someone who actually understands your world?”
I look at the Morrison contract. I think of the unwatered cactus by the window.
“Luca’s,” she says, not asking. “One o’clock. I’ve already handled the reservation.”
A saving grace, or maybe just a temporary exit strategy. Either way, I take it.
“Fine,” I say. “One o’clock.”
I’m so thoroughly stressed by lunchtime that I’m practically giddy with joy over taking a break. Sarcastically speaking.
Luca’s welcomes me like an old friend. The ma?tre d’ recognizes me immediately, not even glancing at the reservation book. “Mr. Plaza, wonderful to see you again. Your usual table is ready.” He doesn’t comment on my wrinkled shirt or the coffee stain.
This is why I come here. They understand discretion is part of what I pay for.
I follow him through the dining room, past tables of power brokers and old money, feeling their eyes track my disheveled appearance. I resist the urge to adjust my tie again. I am still Julian Plaza, and a wrinkled shirt doesn’t change that.
Carmella is already seated, studying the wine list. She looks up, and surprise flickers across her face before she masks it with a smile.
“Julian.” She stands, air-kissing both cheeks. “You look…”
“Like hell,” I finish for her, dropping into my chair. “Save the platitudes.”
She laughs, settling back into her seat with fluid grace. “I’ve always appreciated your directness. It’s refreshing.”