14. The Price of Power
14
THE PRICE OF POWER
ALEX
The Seattle skyline glitters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my private dining room at Altura, where I've just spent forty-five minutes arguing with the sommelier about a bottle of Sassicaia that about as much as my penthouse’s monthly rent. Not because he's wrong about the wine – he isn't – but because sometimes being Alexander Drake means maintaining certain expectations.
Even when those expectations feel increasingly hollow.
"Sir?" The sommelier hovers, professionally anxious. "Shall I decant the '82?"
I check my watch – Swiss, limited edition, a gift to myself after my first billion. Mac is seven minutes late. "Give her another few minutes."
He nods and retreats, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a view worth a million dollars—maybe two. The press conference had gone better than expected. Tech blogs are already calling Drake Enterprises' new initiatives "revolutionary" and "industry-leading. "
All thanks to the woman who might be secretly plotting my company's downfall.
My phone buzzes – Grayson:
GRAY: Saw the press conference. Looking good for a guy who's about to lose a yacht
ME: The yacht is mine. As for you, here’s an idea: Focus on how to keep the 70 year-olds on your over-40 app from sharing shriveled dick pics. Heard there’s an influx of flaccid ones making it to the site. You should partner with an ED pill biz, that might help
GRAY: Already way ahead of you. The only flaccid penis you need to worry about, bro-ham, is your own. But I’m guessing not much is flaccid with Mackenzie around, is it?
I ignore that, but can't ignore the way my pulse jumps when the maitre'd approaches.
"Mr. Drake? Ms. Gallo has arrived."
In high heels that make her slender calves look even longer than they are, Mac strolls right in, still wearing the emerald silk blouse and black pencil skirt from the press conference. Her hair has partially escaped its professional updo, dark curls framing her face in a way that makes my fingers itch to?—
No. Focus.
"You're late," I say, standing because old money manners are harder to shake than a board of directors.
"Blame your revolutionary." She drops into her chair with familiar grace. "Keith tried to barricade himself in the break room after you left. Something about 'seizing the means of caffeine production' and 'down with biometric oppression.'"
"Did he succeed?"
"No, but only because Brad compulsively-ate all his protest snacks and had to go lie down."
The sommelier materializes, presenting the wine with practiced flourish. I watch Mac hide her smile as I go through the tasting ritual – she thinks these power plays are ridiculous, and maybe she's right.
"The press coverage is excellent," she says once we're alone again. "Though that answer about historical salary disparities was a bit?—"
"Perfect," I cut in, because two can play this game. "Thanks to your coaching."
"I was going to say 'rehearsed.'"
"Would you prefer I went off-script? Started sharing actual numbers?"
Her eyes narrow slightly. In the candlelight, they look almost golden. "That would certainly make tomorrow's blog posts interesting."
"Speaking of blogs..." I take a calculated sip of wine. "Have you seen the latest from our anonymous friend?"
Something flickers across her face, gone before I can read it. "I try not to follow industry gossip."
"Really? Because their post about corporate surveillance and coffee machines was surprisingly well-timed."
"Alex—"
The arrival of our appetizers saves her from responding. I'd ordered in advance – another power play that suddenly feels cheap when I see her face.
"You ordered for me?"
"I asked Emma what you like." A half-truth. I'd also had the chef modify his signature dish to accommodate the shellfish allergy mentioned in her file.
"How very... alpha male of you."
"Would you expect anything less?"
"From the man who spent almost an hour arguing about wine decanting? No." But she's smiling slightly as she takes a bite. "Though I have to admit, the food is excellent."
"High praise from a woman whose family runs Seattle's best Italian restaurant. "
"You've never even been to La Famiglia."
"Yet I know their tiramisu won 'Best in Seattle' three years running."
"Background check?"
"Thorough research."
"Most people would call that stalking."
"Most people don't have enigmatic corporate culture consultants who throw champagne at them."
She laughs, and something in my chest tightens. "That was one time. And technically, I didn't throw it."
"No, you just created a very expensive wet t-shirt contest in front of Seattle's tech elite."
"Your suit could handle it.”
"It was Armani."
"It was boring." She takes another bite, then adds quietly, "You dress better now."
The compliment catches me off guard. "Professional necessity."
"Really? The limited edition Omega is professional necessity?"
Now it's my turn to be surprised. "You know watches?"
"I know men who use them as armor." She meets my gaze steadily. "Just like I know CEOs who argue about wine to maintain an image."
Something shifts in the air between us. The polished restaurant, the expensive wine, the whole carefully orchestrated display of power – suddenly it all feels like exactly what it is: a shield.
"Your father's company," she says softly. "The one that failed after your mother left. What did they do wrong?"
The question makes my stomach tighten. "That's not?—"
"Relevant? It's completely relevant. You built Drake Enterprises from nothing, made yourself into this..." she gestures at the private dining room, the wine, me, "this whole persona. But that's not why you're actually changing things now, is it?"
"You think you have me figured out, Ms. Gallo?"
"I think," she says carefully, "that man who answered questions about wage equity today wasn't just playing to the press. I think he actually wants to fix things."
"And that surprises you?"
"It makes me curious." She leans forward slightly. "What changed?"
You , I think but don't say. You and your impossible questions and your way of seeing through every defense I've built.
Instead, I signal for the main course. Another power play. Another retreat.
But Mac just smiles like she knows exactly what I'm doing.
"You know what the difference is between you and Roberto?" she asks suddenly.
The non sequitur startles me. "Your ex-husband?"
"He put on a show of caring about change, about progress. But when it actually came time to support my career..." She shrugs, but I catch the hint of old pain. "Let's just say his ‘traditional values’ weren't just an act."
"And me?"
"You put on a show of not caring. All this..." she gestures at our surroundings again, "it's armor. But underneath..."
The main courses arrive, saving me from having to respond. But her words echo in my head, mixing uncomfortably with memories of my father's failed company, of watching my mother choose a new life over our family legacy.
"Tell me about Drake Enterprises' early days," she says after a few bites. "The real story, not the PR version."
"Why?"
"Because I think it matters." She sets down her fork. "I think it matters a lot."
And maybe it's the wine, or the lingering adrenaline from the press conference, or just the way she's looking at me like she can see past every barrier I've built, but I find myself talking.
About the early failures. About learning from my father's mistakes. About building something that could withstand any storm, any betrayal.
About being so focused on making it unbreakable that I forgot to make it human.
Mac listens, really listens, in a way that has nothing to do with her job title and everything to do with who she is.
"Your turn," I say finally, because fair is fair. "Tell me about Roberto."
"Really? You want to discuss my ex over a thousand-dollar bottle of wine?"
"I want to understand what makes you..." I gesture, echoing her earlier movement.
"What? Suspicious of powerful men? Focused on corporate culture? Willing to throw champagne at CEOs?"
"All of it."
She studies me for a long moment. "Okay. But we're going to need dessert for this conversation. And maybe more wine."
I signal the sommelier, and for the first time tonight, it's not about power or image or maintaining the Alexander Drake persona.
It's just about us.
The real us, not the CEO and the consultant, not the power player and the reformer, but just... us.
My phone buzzes – probably Grayson with more commentary about the press conference – but for once, I let it go.
Some things are more important than image.
Even if it takes a very expensive bottle of wine and a very perceptive woman to remember that.