Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Dax
The conference room empties after the third meeting of the day. Acquisitions, quarterly projections, operational efficiency reviews. Back-to-back since seven this morning, and it's now late afternoon.
I loosen my tie and return to my office. Emma is at her desk outside, fielding calls and managing the chaos that is my schedule. She glances up as I pass.
"Two more interviews scheduled for tomorrow," she says.
"Forbes and the Wall Street Journal. Both want to discuss the Sterling Media acquisition."
"Fine. Block out an hour for each."
"Already done."
I close my office door and sink into my chair. The view from the forty-second floor stretches across Manhattan, the city bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. My phone buzzes on the desk.
Mark: Drinks tonight? Haven's Club at 7?
I glance at my calendar. For once, my evening is clear. No dinners, no events, nothing requiring my presence.
Dax: I'll be there.
Haven's Club sits in Midtown, tucked into a building that looks unremarkable from the outside but houses one of the most exclusive private members clubs in the city. I arrive at seven sharp, and the hostess directs me to the lounge on the third floor.
Mark is already there, seated in one of the leather armchairs near the fireplace, a glass of scotch in hand. He stands when he sees me approaching.
"Dax." We shake hands, and I settle into the chair across from him.
"How was London?" I ask.
"Productive." Mark signals the server.
"Closed the distribution deal with the BBC affiliate. Should see revenue start flowing by Q2."
"Good."
The server appears, and I order a whiskey neat. Mark leans back in his chair, studying me.
"You look tired," he observes.
"Busy week."
"Busy month," he corrects.
"You've been running at full capacity since you got back from Chicago."
I don't respond. He's not wrong.
My drink arrives, and I take a long sip. The whiskey burns going down, warmth spreading through my chest.
"So," Mark says after a moment.
"It's been what, two weeks since that whole mess with Miles's wedding?"
I tense slightly. "About that."
"Have you talked to him?"
"No." I set my glass down.
"I stopped trying to call him. My mom spoke to him, so he's alive and well, apparently. But I just don't have the time or bandwidth for that."
Mark nods slowly.
"Fair enough. What he did was unforgivable."
"Yes."
"And the girl? Scarlett?" Mark's tone is careful.
"Did Miles ever reach out to her? Try to fix things?"
I pause, longer than I realize as I stare down into my glass before taking another drink.
"I don't know. I don't know how you start and reconcile after something like that."
Mark watches me for a beat too long, like he's trying to read something I'm not saying. Then he shifts the conversation to safer territory—business deals, market trends, mutual contacts.
I participate in the conversation, but my mind is elsewhere. On a woman I haven't seen in two weeks. On two text messages that went unanswered. On the memory of her body against mine in a bathroom I can't seem to forget.
Mark is in the middle of telling me about a merger opportunity in Europe when my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and freeze.
Emma: URGENT. Call me immediately.
"Excuse me," I tell Mark, standing.
"I need to take this."
I step away from the seating area and dial Emma.
She answers on the first ring.
"Mr. Blackwell. We have a situation."
"What kind of situation?"
"A former employee from MediaLink—one of our subsidiaries—just went public with allegations. Embezzlement, fraud, misuse of company funds. It's hitting the news cycle now. The story ties back to corporate oversight, which means it's not just MediaLink's problem. It's ours."
My jaw tightens. "How bad?"
"Bad enough that the board wants an emergency meeting first thing tomorrow morning. Legal is already reviewing the allegations. Initial assessment is that it's going to require significant damage control."
I close my eyes briefly, then open them.
"I'm heading home. Send me everything you have."
"Already in your inbox."
I end the call and return to Mark. He takes one look at my face and sets down his drink.
"What happened?"
"PR crisis. Former employee making allegations that could blow back on the entire company."
"Shit." Mark stands.
"What do you need?"
"Time to figure this out." I pull out my wallet and drop cash on the table.
"I'll call you tomorrow."
"Let me know if I can help."
I nod and head for the exit.
***
My penthouse in Tribeca is dark when I arrive. I don't bother turning on more than a few lights as I head straight to my home office and open my laptop.
Emma wasn't exaggerating. The story is everywhere—financial news sites, industry blogs, even starting to trend on social media.
The allegations are serious: a former MediaLink director claiming systematic financial misconduct, falsified reports, funds diverted for personal use.
And because MediaLink operates under Blackwell Media Corp's umbrella, the implication is that corporate oversight failed.
I spend the next three hours reading through legal briefs, internal audits, and media coverage.
By the time I close my laptop, it's past midnight, and I have a clear picture of the mess we're facing.
This isn't just a PR problem. It's a credibility problem.
Investors will panic. Clients will question our integrity.
Competitors will use this as ammunition. We need to get ahead of it. Fast.
The conference room is full when I arrive at eight the next morning. The entire executive team, plus our general counsel and head of communications.
"Let's get started," I say, taking my seat at the head of the table.
Our general counsel, Richard Miller, opens his briefcase and pulls out a stack of documents.
"We've completed our initial review of the allegations. Some have merit. Others appear to be exaggerated or outright false. But the truth doesn't matter as much as perception right now."
"What's our exposure?" I ask.
"Financially? Manageable. Reputationally? Significant." Richard slides a report across the table. "We need a comprehensive response strategy. Legal defense, internal investigation, and aggressive public relations."
Our head of communications, Lisa Winters, clears her throat.
"I made a call to our in-house PR team. But this seems like something that might need to be handled not in-house. We might need to outsource to a firm that specializes in crisis management."
I nod slowly. "Agreed. Get me a list of firms."
"I can have that to you by this afternoon," Lisa says.
The meeting continues for another hour, everyone contributing ideas, strategies, contingencies. By the time we break, I have a clear action plan.
Back in my office, I stand at the window, looking out at the city. The solution is forming in my mind. Not just any PR firm. Not just any crisis management expert.
Scarlett.
I turn to my desk and press the intercom.
"Emma, come in here."
She appears in my doorway thirty seconds later, tablet in hand.
"I need you to make some calls," I tell her.
"There's a PR firm—I don't remember the exact name, but Scarlett Bradford works there. Chicago office. Find out the parent company and get me the contact information."
Emma's fingers fly across her tablet.
"I'll have it within the hour."
"Good. Once you do, set up a call with whoever runs their New York division. I need to speak with them today."
"Understood."
She leaves, and I return to the window. Two weeks. Two unanswered texts. Radio silence. If she won't respond to me personally, maybe she'll respond professionally.
Emma gets me the information within forty-five minutes. The firm is called Whitman Communications, a mid-sized PR company with offices in Chicago, New York, and Los Angeles. The New York office is run by a woman named Patricia Morgan.
"Ms. Morgan is available at three PM," Emma tells me.
"Set it up."
At three o'clock, Emma transfers the call to my office. I pick up on the second ring.
"Ms. Morgan, this is Dax Blackwell."
"Mr. Blackwell." Her voice is smooth, professional.
"It's an honor. I understand you're looking for crisis management support?"
"That's correct. Blackwell Media Corp is facing some allegations that require immediate and aggressive PR strategy. I need a firm that can handle this level of complexity."
"We absolutely can," Patricia says without hesitation.
"Whitman Communications has managed crises for Fortune 500 companies. I can have our New York team assembled and ready to meet with you as early as tomorrow morning."
"There's a stipulation," I interrupt.
A pause. "What kind of stipulation?"
"I'm looking for a particular person. I was referred by Scarlett Bradford. I believe she works out of your Chicago office."
"Oh." Patricia's tone shifts slightly.
"Well, we'll definitely get someone from our New York office to handle this. We have several senior—"
"I'm willing to offer an absurd amount of money," I cut her off.
"Over three times your regular rate. But I only do it if you can get Scarlett Bradford."
Silence on the other end of the line.
"Mr. Blackwell," Patricia begins carefully.
"Scarlett is based in Chicago. This would require relocating her to New York, potentially for an extended period. That's... unusual."
"I was referred to her specifically," I lie smoothly.
"By an associate who worked with her on a similar crisis. He said she's the best in the business. If Whitman Communications wants this contract, it's Scarlett Bradford or I'm calling another firm. You have competitors who would be happy to accommodate me."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I understand," Patricia finally says.
"Give me twenty-four hours. I'll need to speak with our Chicago office and with Scarlett directly. This is... highly irregular, but given the scope of what you're describing, I believe we can make it work."
"Twenty-four hours," I confirm.
"After that, I'm moving on."
"You'll have an answer, Mr. Blackwell. I promise."
"Good."
I end the call and set my phone on the desk.
I open my messages and scroll to Scarlett's name. The last two texts I sent her stare back at me, both unanswered.
Dax: How are you?
Dax: Scarlett.
Nothing.
But I know how business works. I know how leverage works. And if my strategy is successful, Scarlett Bradford will be in New York within a week, working directly with me, whether she wants to or not.
I'll have her full attention—one way or another. I pocket my phone and return to the contracts waiting on my desk.