Chapter 9 Nico
Nico
Ever since the leak, it’s felt like I’ve been slowly bleeding out on the operating room table while Martin Hale stands over me with a scalpel, smiling like he’s doing me a favor.
Yep. That’s exactly what it feels like.
A slow surgical dismemberment of everything I’ve built.
I’m standing at my office windows at 7 AM, watching the Hudson catch the morning light, and all I can think about is how many different ways Martin is trying to fuck me over.
The leaked slides were just the first incision.
Now he’s working on the deeper tissue.
Dashiell, my CFO, called me at 6:30 this morning. Woke me from the two hours of sleep I managed to scrape together.
“In regards to the forensic review of Martin’s communications you tasked me with, I found something interesting in the calendar data,” he said. “Martin’s been meeting with board members. Separately. Off the books.”
“Which ones?”
“Chen, Whitmore, and Paulson. All at his club. All within the last ten days.”
Three out of nine voting members. Plus Martin himself makes four. He needs five to force a governance restructure. Which means he’s one vote away from neutering my control over my own goddamn company.
I take a sip of my coffee. It’s gone cold. I don’t care.
The business magazine profile drops soon. Kieran Ashby, that persistent bastard, has been calling everyone I’ve ever worked with. My sources tell me Martin fed him a list of names. People who might have grievances. Former employees. Competitors. Anyone with a sharp enough knife to stick in my back.
My phone buzzes. A text from Dr. Helena Vasquez, a board member I consider an ally.
Martin cornered me at the hospital gala last night. He’s making his pitch sound reasonable. He’s “concerned about leadership stability.” Watch your back.
I type back: Working on it. Thanks for the heads up.
The phone on my desk buzzes. I don’t turn around immediately.
“Mr. Rossi, your 8 AM is here early. Should I send them up?”
Bree’s voice through the intercom.
I turn.
She’s seated at her desk just outside the glass wall of my office. Her hair is pulled back today, and I can see the curve of her neck where I once pressed my lips.
Enough.
“Send them up,” I say more harshly than I intend.
She nods once and presses the “hang up” button on her speakerphone, and returns her attention to her computer.
I’ve been watching her too much lately. Noticing things I have no business noticing.
The way she bites the inside of her cheek when she disagrees with something but doesn’t want to say it.
The way her pen pauses over her notebook during meetings, right at the moments when someone says something stupid.
She sees everything. Processes it. Files it away in that system of hers.
And I keep pushing her away because the alternative is admitting that the one night we had wasn’t enough. Admitting that watching her across this glass divide is slowly driving me insane.
Fuck.
I have bigger problems right now. Martin Hale is trying to steal my company while I’m distracted by my secretary.
Get it together.
The 8 AM meeting is with Pemberton Clinic group. They’re threatening to break our licensing contract. Martin’s private equity partners have been courting them for months, promising better margins if they switch.
I spend the hour convincing them to stay. It works, barely, but I can tell they’re hedging. Everyone’s hedging. The whole industry can smell blood in the water, and they’re all circling to see which way I fall.
By the time afternoon hits, my jaw aches from clenching it. My hand still has that faint scar from the mug incident last week, a reminder of my own stupidity.
The executive team meeting starts at 2 PM. We have the full war room going on today. Elspeth, Dashiell, Yael, Larissa, Paloma. COO. CFO. CTO. General Counsel. VP Communications.
And Bree.
Sitting in the corner with her laptop, taking notes.
Paloma stands to present the updated media strategy. She’s been working on it for a week. She looks exhausted.
Join the club.
“We’ve drafted a proactive narrative,” she says, pulling up slides. “Emphasizing the reconstructive mission, featuring patient testimonials. The goal is to reframe the conversation before the magazine profile drops.”
I scan the slides. It’s generic, defensive posturing dressed up in pretty graphics.
“This is reactive,” I say.
Paloma blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“You said it was a proactive narrative. This is reactive. You’re responding to their narrative instead of creating our own.”
She seems flustered. “We’re trying to redirect the conversation toward our strengths and away from the leaked document.”
“By retreating.” I stand up, start pacing. “This entire strategy is based on the assumption that we’re guilty of something. We’re not.”
“Nico, the optics of the leaked slide deck are problematic,” Paloma stresses. “We can’t just ignore that.”
“I’m not saying ignore it. I’m saying stop acting like we have something to hide.” My voice is rising. I can’t stop it. “Every sentence in this strategy sounds like an apology. For what, exactly? For building a profitable company that also happens to help people? For making money while doing good?”
Paloma’s face has gone pale. “I thought we discussed approaching this with humility and transparency...”
“Humility is fine. Groveling is not.” I gesture at the screen. “This makes us look pathetic. Like we’re one hundred percent guilty of profiting from other people’s misfortune, and begging for forgiveness.”
The room has gone quiet. Dashiell is studying his hands. Elspeth’s jaw is tight. Yael is staring at the ceiling like she’s counting the tiles.
And Bree. Bree is looking directly at me. Her fingers have stopped moving. Those amber-brown eyes are steady, and I can see exactly what she’s thinking.
She thinks I’m wrong.
She thinks I’m being an asshole.
She’s right. On both counts.
But I can’t stop.
“I’ve been in this business for eight years,” I continue.
“I’ve built something from nothing while people like Martin Hale sat on the sidelines and waited to pick over the corpse.
And now I’m supposed to apologize because some employee leaked a slide deck that lacks context?
Because our board segmentation strategy isn’t warm and fuzzy enough for social media? ”
“Nico,” Elspeth tries to interrupt.
“No.” I slam my hand on the table. Everyone flinches.
Even Bree. “I’m not done. This strategy is exactly what Martin wants.
He wants us to look defensive. He wants us to look like we’re in damage control mode.
Because every day we spend apologizing is another day he gets to position himself as the alternative. ”
I turn back to Paloma. She looks like she’s about to cry.
“This isn’t a media strategy,” I spit. My voice has gone cold. The way it gets when I’m about to say something I’ll regret. But I can’t stop myself. “This is reactive incompetence. And honestly, I’m starting to question whether you’re actually qualified to handle a crisis of this magnitude.”
Paloma’s eyes are blinking to fast. Her hands are trembling slightly as she gathers her papers.
“I’ll— I’ll revise the approach,” she says quietly.
“Do that,” I intone.
The meeting ends. People scatter like I’m contagious. Dashiell mutters something about needing to check on something. Elspeth gives me a look that says we’re going to have a conversation later. Yael practically runs out the door. Even Bree flees.
Good, let her see who I really am.
I stand at the head of the empty conference table, wondering when exactly I became this person.
The door clicks shut.
Then opens again.
I turn, expecting to find Elspeth coming back inside to tell me what an asshole I am.
It’s Bree.
She closes the door behind her. The accusing way she looks at me... it shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
“That was cruel,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“What you just did to Paloma.” Her voice is quiet but steady. “She’s paralyzed because you won’t let her do her job. Every time she brings you a strategy, you tear it apart. Every time she tries to execute, you override her. You’re so busy controlling everything that you’re making it worse.”
I stare at her. This secretary. This woman I can’t stop thinking about.
Standing in my conference room.
Telling me I’m wrong.
“You’re out of line, Ms. Dawson,” I tell her.
“Maybe.” She doesn’t flinch. “But someone needed to say it.”
The anger in me wars with something else. Respect. Attraction.
The desperate urge to grab her and kiss her until we both forget about board meetings and media strategies and everything except the way she felt against me that night.
Instead I say, “Get the fuck out.”
She holds my stare for three long seconds. Her chin lifts defiantly.
Magnificently.
Then she turns and walks out.
I watch the door close behind her.
My hands are suddenly shaking.
And my heart is pounding like I just ran a marathon.
She’s the only person in this building brave enough to tell me I’m wrong.
And I just threw her out.
I sink into a chair and press my palms against my eyes. The pressure helps, slightly. Keeps me from punching something else and adding another scar to the collection.
I have more back-to-back meetings scheduled in that conference room, and stay there for the rest of the day.
When I finally get back to my office, Bree has long since gone home, as has everyone else.
But there’s a purple sticky note on my desk.
Fire me if you want. But read this first.
Beneath it is a complete revision of Paloma’s media strategy, courtesy of Bree. Handwritten notes in the margins. A full narrative framework that doesn’t grovel but doesn’t attack either. It’s confident and honest, and acknowledges the concerns without apologizing for existing.
It’s fucking brilliant.
She’s right. About Paloma. About my controlling bullshit. About all of it.
And she rewrote this to help me. Even after I told her to get the fuck out.
My phone buzzes. A text from Bree.
Just a reminder, your donor dinner is at 7.
Back-to-back meetings.
I note that she said nothing about these latest revisions in her text.
Typical Bree. Never wants credit for anything.
I grab my jacket. Shove her sticky note into my pocket.
Head for the elevator.
I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me when she said I was cruel.
Like I was better than this.
Like she believed I could be.
Fuck.