Chapter 22 Grayson
Grayson
Despite my warnings, my father charges right ahead with his plans and announces an EGM—an Extraordinary General Meeting—for directors and senior shareholders.
That sounds impressive, and in a publicly held company it would be a huge deal, with representatives from investment banks, other large firms, and even private investors attending, along with the full roll call of board members.
With the Wolfe Group, however, the "owners" are all family—George, Stephanie, and me, each holding ten percent as junior shareholders, and Mom and Pops holding thirty-five percent apiece.
Between them, our parents still make every decision that goes to a vote in a board meeting.
It's only if they disagree that my shares, Steph's, and George's suddenly count.
Truth is, my mother and father have never once voted against each other.
Of course, as CEO, I get to make all the non-voting decisions—which, to be honest, are practically all of them. Or at least, I have up to now.
The atmosphere in the boardroom is tense. You could almost cut it with a knife. The air is heavy with excitement, concern, stress, and that ominous sense that whatever happens today could change all of our lives.
"Okay, let's call this meeting to order." My father taps the table, and the low hum of conversation dies instantly. A hush descends as he looks around the room, pausing on each of our faces, as if to make sure we're all paying attention. He always did like the sound of his own voice, the old fool.
"Now that everyone's here, we can start.
I know you're all very busy, and so am I, so I'll make this short, sweet, and to the point.
As of today, the Wolfe Group will have two people sitting in the CEO seat as joint acting CEOs.
Both my sons—George and Grayson Wolfe—will assume the role, and all decisions will be made in full agreement between them.
Two signatures on contracts, two nods of approval on informal decisions.
"At the end of twelve months, we'll reconvene and select one of the two—or even a third person, if required—to assume the role of permanent CEO going forward, based on their performance and, of course, the overall performance of the Group during the year."
I remain seated, my face wooden and expressionless, but George gets up, flashes a brief smile at the rest of the people in the room, and sits again.
"As the new joint acting CEO with my brother, Grayson, I don't expect this development to come with any major changes," he says.
"Things will continue to run as smoothly as they always have, and I want you to see the two of us as a pair—two interchangeable pieces that support and enhance each other.
I'm convinced we can work together to make sure there's no confusion or contradiction in leadership. Right, Grayson?"
He looks my way with that triumphant little smile, knowing he's hit exactly the right note of professionalism and reasonableness to make himself sound good. I vaguely wonder who helped him with his little speech—Pops, maybe? Or no, actually, I'd bet money it was Marina.
My dad shoots us both warning looks, but I'm not in the mood for a public argument, and I know full well that if I start one, I'll only look weak. Instead, I just arch an eyebrow at George, as if to say, You think so, huh?
In any case, I've already told him what I intend to do, which is basically to carry on exactly as usual.
If George doesn't like it, then tough shit.
I'll tell him what decisions I'm planning to make and explain why.
I'll even discuss them with him—help him understand better, if that's possible.
But I'm not interested in "joint decision-making.
" He can either agree with me or not, but what I say goes—or I walk. Simple.
I might work with George, but that doesn't mean I'm going to like it.
Nor am I going to babysit him. Here's the thing: George just doesn't have a clue how to run the Group.
The vast majority of his ideas are going to be complete BS.
It's not his fault, and I'm not trying to be cruel; it's just the truth.
That's what my father can't seem to see.
But even if he doesn't, I do, and I won't agree to anything that's not in the Group's best interest. I'll have no qualms about shooting George down when he's wrong.
Most of the senior team is loyal to me. They trust me and they follow my directives.
They're already looking my way, gauging how I'm taking the news and tuning their reactions accordingly.
I sit upright, impassive, and give them the briefest nod to reassure them that I'm still in control and I haven't been usurped. Not yet, anyway.
We've worked together for decades, and I've spent all that time building their trust in me and in my leadership. That doesn't just vanish because Pops says so. Whatever he claims, it's me they're loyal to, and it's my orders they'll follow—and their teams will follow suit.
I don't know how George is going to cope with that, but he'll have to figure out how to win them over on his own. I won't actively go against him, but I'm not going to go out of my way to help him either.
As the meeting continues—first with George introducing himself to the executive team, then each of those execs introducing themselves to him, explaining their roles and main responsibilities, and giving him a high-level overview of whatever they're currently working on—my phone buzzes.
It's Jenna, texting me a link to a silk and cashmere scarf from Prada along with the message: Do you think your sister would like this?
I raise my eyebrows. That's unexpected. I text back, Why are you buying my sister a scarf?
A moment later, my phone beeps again. She bought me a bracelet the last time we met, and I want to return the favor.
Interesting. I wonder what my sister's up to. I didn't know the two of you hit it off so well. A few seconds later, her reply pings in.
It's a surprise to me too. Also, I want to buy something for your mother—to make her like me—and it seemed too obvious to only get something for her and not your sister.
I chuckle as I respond. Ah, now I get it. You think my mother's bribable?
I don't have to wait long. Every man has his price. That's Robert Walpole, in case you've forgotten. Goes for women too, LOL. It's just a matter of finding what she wants. Anyway, will Steph like this scarf, or is she more of a jewelry person?
I laugh under my breath. Steph's easy to please. She likes everything. She has zero filters when it comes to stuff. As for Mother—good luck with that. She's picky, and she's got expensive taste. Out of your league.
Ha. See how she likes that.
Her reply lands fast. Oh, that's okay. Some dumbass gave me his black Amex yesterday and told me to go crazy. Or have you forgotten already?
Touché. It's true—I did give her the card yesterday, right after I'd gone ahead and bought her that Yves Saint Laurent purse I'd pretended was for her cousin.
I had it delivered to her office, and she sent me eye-roll emojis before arranging a huge bouquet of red and white roses to be delivered to me.
In the middle of the white roses, the red ones were arranged to spell out one word: LIAR.
That, of course, had led to an argument when we got home—followed by explosively fantastic makeup sex.
It was right after that I'd promised her I'd stop buying her things myself, as long as she used my Amex from now on.
I'm not even sure why that was so important to me—just that it seemed right for my fiancée to have my card.
But I hadn't thought she'd go and use it to bribe my mother.
I gave you the Amex to buy stuff for yourself, not my mother.
No, you said—and I quote—"Buy whatever you want." This is what I want to buy.
I sigh, not sure whether to be angry or amused. In the end, it's both. But her sheer audacity wins out.
Fine. You win. Again. Just don't expect any help from me. From now on, find someone else to help you guys gang up on me.
Okay then. Thanks, will do.
I shake my head, grinning. The girl's incorrigible. No shame whatsoever. But because I don't want the conversation to end there, I text, Tell me you're buying something for yourself too. I insist.
A few minutes pass before the phone vibrates again.
There's not much I want—and certainly nothing I need, since someone already filled up my closet with crap. But I did find these red Louboutin pumps.
I click the link. Fuck, they're hot. I imagine her sliding them onto her delicate feet, looking at me with those sultry eyes as she does it.
Then I imagine lifting her up, laying her gently on the couch, taking them off one at a time—massaging her feet, then moving up her legs, past her knees, to the soft warmth of her silky thighs…
And then, as if the universe heard me, her next message arrives: a photo of her feet in those red pumps over a pair of stockings.
Holy hell.
Just like that, I'm bricked up—my imagination racing, heart pounding.
I want her to be wearing exactly that the next time I fuck her.
I want those heels over my shoulders, scoring my back while I eat her out.
I want—
"Grayson?"
I barely hear my name over the pulse in my ears. It sounds like it's coming from far away. I want to ignore it and let my eyes linger on the photo for a few more seconds, but when the call comes again, I drag my gaze away from my phone and meet my father's eyes.
"What?"
"What do you mean, what?" he snaps. "We called you three times."
"Why?"
"Are you even paying attention? This meeting is important."
"It's important for you and George. Everything that's being said, I already know—seeing as how I've been the CEO for the last decade, ever since you… retired from the role."
No need to dig up old ground or make it worse for him. Still, maybe he should be reminded who stepped in when he was ill—and just how much the Group has achieved under my leadership.