Chapter 22 Grayson #2
My father's lips press together, reminding me a little of Jenna, though he doesn't do it nearly as prettily. "You don't have to be difficult about this."
I snort. "Please. If anything, I should be more difficult.
I was supposed to have lunch with my fiancée today, but thanks to you, I had to cancel.
Now I'm stuck here in a meeting I don't even want to be at, listening to people drone on about shit I already know.
I think I'm entitled to be more than a little irritated.
If I want to text my fiancée during the meeting, I'm gonna do it—unless, of course, you'd rather I leave and go meet her instead, like I'd originally planned? "
My father practically gapes. He looks like he can't believe my audacity. But that's exactly the problem.
I realize it now—though why I haven't before, I really can't imagine.
Maybe it's Jenna. Seeing my family through her eyes has given me a new perspective.
Maybe not a kinder one, but definitely a clearer one.
We've all let him have his way because… well, because he's Pops.
The legend. The self-made man who came to America with nothing but a dollar in his pocket and built a multi-billion-dollar empire in under forty years.
But since his stroke, he's mellowed. Weakened, even.
Now, where Mother used to advise him, she tells him—and he gives in to her far too much. That's not good for someone like her. She thinks she knows more than she really does, and her priorities are completely off. No business sense whatsoever.
Sure, I took over the title of CEO. But did I ever really take over the man?
Maybe. In some ways. Outwardly, in business, yes—at least to the rest of the world.
But inwardly, within the family, I'm still not the head of it.
I'm still Michael Wolfe's little boy, doing what his father tells him to do.
Is that what needs to change?
I need to think long and hard about that. But meanwhile, I still have to deal with Pops.
I raise an eyebrow. "Father, you're the one who's always harping about how family is more important than work, right?"
It's the same lecture he gives me every time my mother goes crying to him about how I don't visit enough.
He doesn't like hearing his own words thrown back at him. His face tightens, and instead of answering, he stalks off, clearly deciding to ignore me.
The meeting drones on, but my attention drifts right back to the photo—the one of Jenna's feet in those red heels.
I text her. What do I have to do to get you to wear that for me when we get home?
It takes her a while to reply, either because she's back to work or because she's thinking about what she wants in return. I wonder what the price will be this time. Another million? Two?
Finally, her message appears. I get to pick out one item of your clothing tomorrow.
My eyes narrow. What game is she playing now?
I text back, Come on, Jenna.
Almost immediately, my phone pings again. What? It's a fair trade. You get to see me in something you want, and I get to see you in something I want.
Yeah, I reply. Except that what I want to see you in is also something you want to wear. You, on the other hand, are going to make me look like a clown.
Another ping. Ye of little faith. How is it that you're always complimenting my style and fashion sense, yet you don't think I know how to dress you?
Because we're different people, I text. What looks good to you might not look good on me.
You don't know unless you try. We can start small. A pocket square and a belt. How about that?
I think about it, then send my final message. Fine. Your way. Again.
Deal. She adds a devil-horn emoji at the end, and I can practically hear her laughing as she types it.
The meeting's winding down now. People are gathering their papers, chatting quietly, and filing out. My father walks up to me as I slip my phone into my pocket.
"You're acting like a child."
"I suppose that makes two of us."
"Are you seriously going to walk away rather than work under your brother?"
"Yes. If you pick him as the permanent CEO, I'm out. That's a promise."
"What will you do?"
"I'll get by. If I were you, I'd be worrying far more about what George will do as the new CEO, rather than what I'll do as the old one."
I shoot him a sharp smile, stand, and walk toward the door, leaving him staring at my back.
Later that afternoon, while I'm in my office working through the details of a minor acquisition, George knocks on the door and saunters in.
"Hey," he says. "You busy?"
"Kind of," I reply. "What do you need?"
"I just… I want to talk."
Uh-oh. I have a feeling this is going to be annoying, but if I send him away, he'll just run to Dad, and I'll get another lecture.
I sit there, staring at him. When he doesn't continue, I spread my arms wide. "Talk. The floor's yours."
"I just feel like things have been weird between us, don't you think?"
"You mean since you fucked my last fiancée?"
His face flames, and he gets that kicked-puppy look again. I shake my head. It's not even satisfying anymore because he never fights back.
"Grayson, listen…"
"If you're going to apologize again, you might as well walk out. I don't care about that anymore."
"You don't?"
"No," I tell him. "It's done. I'm over it. Everyone's moved on and everyone's happy—at least, I assume."
"Yeah, yeah." He doesn't sound convinced. "So… there are no hard feelings?"
"No, George. Like I said, I'm over it. But I meant what I told Pops—I'm not going to coddle you in this job. If you screw something up, I'm letting you take the fall all by yourself. Understood?"
He nods. "Yes. I wouldn't expect anything less."
"Good."
"So, um… Marina mentioned she called you about a week ago."
I raise an eyebrow.
"What did the two of you talk about?" he asks, his voice lingering too long on the question.
"Why not ask her?"
He blushes.
"Ah. Because you don't trust her?" I can't help but tease, and I don't like myself for it—but honestly, I can't help feeling a certain satisfaction at the karma of it all. "Are you two having problems, George? Is she doing the same thing to you that she did to me?"
"No," he says quickly. Too quickly.
I chuckle. "How do you know? No, don't answer that. We both know the real answer. Anyway, relax. Yes, she did call, but I didn't even answer the phone."
A flash of relief crosses his face. "But what did she want to talk to you about?"
"How the fuck would I know? I just told you—I didn't answer."
"Right." He forces a weak laugh. "Of course."
"Is that all?" I ask.
He nods. "Yes. Yes, that's all."
But that's not the last I hear about the George-and-Marina situation. Because just a few minutes later, while I'm reviewing the acquisition documents, there's a knock on my door and Carissa pokes her head in.
"Sir?"
"I'm busy. No appointments for the rest of the afternoon."
"I know, sir. It's just that she won't leave."
My ears perk up, and my mood lifts. "Who? Jenna?"
"No, not Jenna… me."
Another voice. A voice I can hardly fail to recognize after all those years. My heart sinks.
Marina steps around Carissa and walks into my office.
"Have you been avoiding me, Grayson?" she asks, giving me that quiet half-smile I used to love. She's dressed in an understated but classy suit, her brunette hair clipped neatly at her nape.
I expect a surge of anger at seeing her. Or maybe some leftover heartbreak.
But what I feel is the same thing I felt when I heard she was at the gala—mild annoyance.
That's it. Nothing more.
"What do you want?" I ask, waving Carissa away with a nod. My assistant closes the door softly behind her.
"Really?" Marina says. "Is that all you have to say to me?"
"Well, considering you're the third meeting today I didn't ask for and didn't want…"
She looks surprised, though I don't know why she should. Did she expect me to welcome her with open arms?
Her back straightens, and she clasps her hands in front of her.
"I came to talk to you about George," she says. "We've been having problems in our relationship and he's—"
"Do I look like your relationship counselor?"
Shame flickers across her face. "I know. I know you don't care because of what I did—because I broke your heart. I'm so sorry, Grayson—"
"I'm not heartbroken," I assure her. "I just don't care. Listen, Marina, can you get to the point? I really have a lot of work to do."
She laughs—a short, bitter sound. "Of course. Work always comes first with you, doesn't it? That's your first love, after all. You'll never love any woman as much as you love those folders."
I stare at her, wondering if she's lost her mind. Why is she here? Why now? What the fuck is this about?
She opens her mouth again, but before she can say a word, the door to my office blows open—
—and Jenna is standing there.
And she looks pissed as hell.