Chapter 7 The Tree of Life
THE TREE OF LIFE
*Samantha*
Every conversation seemed to cut off the second I passed, as though photos of me had been passed around ahead of time with instructions to remain silent in my presence.
My security team—their haircuts as tight as their neckties—flanked me.
One gentleman two steps ahead, the other two steps behind.
Meanwhile, Tara hovered at my left and Dr. Hauser, my PI, matched my stride exactly on the right.
My legal team was already upstairs, making last-minute preparations in a conference room that the Genetix board had graciously offered for my use.
I’d spent most of the past week fielding my team’s calls, reading dense PDFs in the middle of the night, and pretending I wasn’t nervous about today’s vote.
Since Dr. Hauser had agreed to be my proxy last week, I’d spent the days since avoiding any thought that wasn’t strictly about work, the shareholder meeting, or Kaitlyn.
That is to say, I spent the week avoiding any thoughts about Andreas.
Some unavoidable, uncontrollable thoughts did break through. Mostly, I’d succeeded.
Kaitlyn’s deteriorating state was probably the reason.
Last night, Kaitlyn’s fever had come back after we thought it was finally gone.
She’d spent most of the evening sweating and pale.
Meanwhile, I’d convinced myself she was dying.
I did not share these suspicions with her.
She had enough to deal with. But I did encourage both her and Martin to call Kaitlyn’s father, who was the dean of the college of medicine at a large California university.
“Are you okay?” Dr. Hauser’s voice cut through my thoughts.
I flinched only subtly and forced my face into something resembling composure. “Yes. Sorry. I’m fine. I just—my friend is sick, and I’m worried about her.”
Hauser nodded once, her eyes warm but her mouth in a straight line. “Don’t worry if you need to go, I’ll cover for you.”
I managed a grateful smile. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
She returned the smile, then turned her attention back to the closed elevator doors as we waited.
I glanced around at the Genetix lobby. Clean, cold, all shiny surfaces and plants that I was ninety-nine percent sure were plastic.
Not that I was one to judge. As already established, I adored fake plants.
The elevator arrived with a ding. The doors opened.
We boarded. Tara pressed the call button for the top floor.
All the while, I did a quick mental check of the seating chart for the meeting: Dr. Hauser as my share proxy would sit next to me, then the two partners from my law firm.
Also present would be the CEO of Genetix, the CEO of the Vince Group—a three and a half percent shareholder, the largest non-Kristiansen stake in the company—as well as several other smaller voting groups.
On the other side of the table, the three Kristiansen brothers would perch like vultures, along with their own wall of lawyers and fixers.
There was a chance the meeting would end in a quiet procedural vote and a minimum of drama. However, given Henrik Kristiansen’s penchant for violence, there existed a much larger chance it would descend into gladiatorial farce.
I must’ve been lost to my thoughts again because the sound of my name in Andreas’s voice startled me.
I looked up and found him standing just outside the elevator, surrounded on all sides by women and men in well-tailored suits, his hand holding the sliding doors open.
His green eyes were already on me. They looked wide and hopeful and absorbed by the sight of me.
Had I not been expecting to see him, I might’ve been entranced by how warm his gaze felt, how interested and inviting.
Not this time. Nah, bruh.
I knew he’d be here, though I’d hoped to arrive early enough that we wouldn’t run into each other. But no problem. I was prepared.
Eyes locked on mine, Andreas took two measured steps into the elevator, clearly testing the water, whether I’d allow him to enter and ride to the top floor along with us.
When I made no protest, he gestured for his entourage to wait for the next car.
The doors closed behind him, sealing us together in the small capsule of icy silence.
Tara shifted, ever so slightly, her body language a silent “Want me to deck him?” but I shook my head minutely. Let him stand next to me. I didn’t care. He didn’t matter.
“Good to see you,” he said, his voice low and unhurried, as though he were testing the words.
I ignored the way my stomach flip-flopped at the sound of my name from his lips.
I had catalogued and accepted over the past month that there were certain stimuli that bypassed my cerebral cortex entirely and shot straight to the lizard brain: the smell of brewing coffee, the sound of Kaitlyn’s baby’s giggle, and, unfortunately, the way Andreas said my name.
For a second, I almost forgot what I was supposed to do. Then, remembering I had manners, I turned to Dr. Hauser and said, “Dr. Hauser, this is Mr. Kristiansen. He’s the youngest of Oskar Kristiansen’s sons and, technically, my adoptive parent.”
I didn’t miss the way Andreas’s eyes narrowed and his expression darkened at my use of the word parent.
He extended a hand to Dr. Hauser. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, voice perfectly civil.
She shook his hand, her own grip certain and strong. “Likewise. This is quite the meeting.”
“Yes. Quite,” said Andreas. He released her hand and, with a tight nod to Tara, turned to face me fully, his expression again absorbed and what looked like hopeful.
There was a moment’s silence as the elevator whisked us up, and I took the opportunity to stare him down while trying to recall all the things I’d rehearsed saying to him if ever given the chance. But the only thought in my head was, I hate you.
Something in my expression made his eyebrows pull together and he broke the silence first. “If possible, would you mind giving me a few moments before the shareholder meeting?”
I blinked my glare away from him, redirecting it to the seam of the elevator doors. “I don’t have time to—”
“Please,” he interrupted, and the word landed with more force than I expected. “Otherwise, you might be blindsided by some changes in shareholder ownership during the meeting.”
That got my attention. Involuntarily, I glanced at him and noted unmistakable fatigue etched into the lines of his face, and something else. A haunted quality, worse than the funereal pallor in Paris. The suit was flawless, and the hair, of course, was stupidly perfect, but he looked thinner.
My heart jolted and asked, What’s the harm? What difference does five minutes make? Maybe if you meet with him, he’ll finally leave you alone.
“Okay,” I said, voice flat. “Fine.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you.”
The elevator arrived at the boardroom floor, and the doors slid open.
Tara and the other bodyguards fanned out.
I followed Andreas through a maze of high-ceilinged corridors, each one lined with what must have been millions of dollars in abstract art.
Apparently, the Genetix interior design theme was “aggressive minimalism,” which suited the Kristiansen brand of self-mythologizing to a T.
As we walked, I found myself studying his posture, the angle of his jaw as he turned his head as though to ensure I still followed, the way his hands seemed to fidget, something I didn’t recall them ever doing before.
The more I watched, the more the notion took hold: Something is actually wrong with him; he is not well; this is not the Andreas I knew.
But he was not my problem. I’d made my decision. Stay strong.
Despite the other stressor on my mind, when the unavoidable, uncontrollable thoughts of Andreas did break through this last week, many of the important people in my life had helped me mentally prepare and workshop strategies for dealing with him.
Diya was Team Gentle But Firm. My therapist was Team Healthy Boundaries. Kaitlyn, perhaps due to her fever, thought I should torch his entire life by writing a tabloid-style tell-all and sending it to Nakita to proofread.
Only Martin, who knew less than everyone else, was Team Maybe Have One Honest Conversation With The Guy.
He argued that, for some people, strategy and defensiveness were a survival mechanism, a life raft.
And that maybe I owed it to myself to hear Andreas out, judge his sincerity for myself, and communicate my needs before closing the book forever.
Bah! Just like Dmitry, I suspected Martin’s plight-sympathy ratio based on his phenotypic sex was all out of whack because Martin and Andreas were both dudes. At the time, I’d rolled my eyes so hard they made a sound.
But now, as we approached a frosted glass door at the end of a hallway, I wondered if he’d been on to something.
Andreas stopped in front of the door, glanced over his shoulder, and said, “Please. After you.”
Tara brushed past him first, scanning the interior with professional efficiency, then leaned back and whispered, “I’ll just make sure it’s secure.”
Dr. Hauser seized the opportunity to ask Andreas, “Can you direct me to the ladies’ room?”
He gave her crisp, unhurried directions, and she peeled off down the corridor. At a gesture from me, one of my bodyguards trailed her at a respectful distance, leaving just me, Tara, Andreas, my other guard, and the unmarked conference room.
Tara emerged and gave me a nod. She stepped back inside, followed by Andreas and me, and my second bodyguard stationed himself directly outside the door.
The room was small and elegant. Pale wood, a gleaming oval table, and maybe six ergonomically perfect chairs. A single water carafe and a stack of glasses sat at one end, and the only color in the room came from a miniature succulent in the center of the table.
I hovered just inside the door, trying to decide where to stand.
Tara waited a beat, then looked to me for instruction.