5. Chapter FiveLucas
Chapter Five
Lucas
T he sun hasn’t yet risen, but I’m already in my office, studying the family photos on the wall. My father’s stern face dominates the centerpiece—an image from the company’s twenty-fifth anniversary gala. In it, he’s shaking hands with Jeremy Johnson Sr., both men beaming over the sustainable energy contract that transformed Walker Enterprises from a regional player into an industry leader.
I step closer to the photo, noticing details I’ve overlooked before. The pride in Dad’s eyes isn’t just about the contract. It’s about what it represented. The handshake captured there wasn’t just business; it was two men who believed they could build something that would last beyond their lifetimes. Something their children might someday lead together.
Now, twenty years later, I’m fighting to keep that vision alive while Jeremy Jr. weighs Brighton’s offer.
I loosen my tie, already feeling strangled despite the early hour. Yesterday’s board meeting about Project Phoenix went well—too well, apparently. The vote was supposed to be today, followed by tomorrow’s Johnson presentation. But Brighton Analytics has raised the stakes by offering the Johnsons exclusive access to SolarTech’s new solar cell technology. We’re not just fighting to keep a $50 million client—we’re fighting to stay relevant in a rapidly evolving industry.
Instead of focusing on the eight different ways this could all fall apart, I spent half the night thinking about Emma’s presentation yesterday. How she transformed a potential disaster with the coffee cup into a perfect metaphor for our strategy. The confidence in her voice when she faced down Garrett’s skepticism proved she wasn’t just the brilliant but chaotic analyst he expected to fail.
Professional. I need to stay professional.
My phone buzzes—another email from Garrett with his “concerns” about Emma’s strategy. He’s sent fifteen similar messages since yesterday’s meeting, each questioning a different aspect of the plan. The latest one suggests that perhaps someone with “more experience” should lead Wednesday’s presentation to the Johnsons. Someone like his nephew Jamie, fresh from Harvard Business School, who interned at Brighton Analytics last summer.
A familiar tension rises in my chest. The same feeling that had driven me to walk out of Dad’s office two years ago when he’d suggested I wasn’t ready for leadership. I take a deep breath, watching the dawn light slowly illuminate the skyline. Getting defensive about Emma’s capabilities won’t help either of us. Her work speaks for itself—her market prediction model saved our solar division $12 million last quarter alone if Garrett would just look at the numbers instead of waiting for her to fail.
Waiting for us both to fail.
“You’re here early.”
I look up to find Sophie in my doorway, holding two cups of coffee and wearing an expression that’s far too knowing for 6 AM.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I admit, accepting one cup. “What’s your excuse?”
“My big brother is about to face his first vote by the board as CEO, where he’ll have to convince the old guards that our future lies in sustainable tech rather than traditional energy markets. Where else would I be?” She drops into one of my visitor chairs, making it look like a throne. “Plus, I heard through the grapevine that Garrett’s being particularly Garrett-ish about Emma’s proposal.”
“The grapevine being Emma?”
“The grapevine being Natalie, who heard Emma stress-organizing the supply closet at midnight.” Sophie sips her coffee. “She was muttering about prehistoric board members who wouldn’t know innovation if it color-coded their filing system and created a sustainability matrix of their ongoing incompetence.”
I can’t help but smile, picturing it. Emma standing on a stepladder in the supply room, sorting binders by energy efficiency while muttering statistics under her breath. She’s always been like that—channeling her nervous energy into organizing things. During college finals, she’d color-coded her entire study group’s notes by subject and probability of test questions. They all got As.
“The proposal is solid,” I say, more to myself than Sophie. “Emma’s strategy is solid. Direct, efficient, transformative. Her integrated approach will redefine our renewable energy services. The automated processing cuts response time by 60%. If Garrett would just stop focusing on optics and look at results—“
“Stop seeing you as the guy who turned the senior partners’ retreat into an impromptu pool party?” Sophie raises an eyebrow. “The same guy who then went to New York and turned three failing energy startups into profitable green tech leaders?”
“The board doesn’t care about Matthews certain board members are concerned about Ms. Hastings’ readiness. The timeline adjustment would be prudent given recent developments.”
Sophie stands, straightening her blazer. “That’s my cue to go do whatever it is Marketing does all day. Try not to organize any underwater ballet between now and the meeting.”
As she passes Garrett, she smiles at him with practiced sweetness.
“Mr. Garrett! I was just reading about retirement packages yesterday for a marketing campaign. I’d be happy to share some literature with you.”
She sashays out, leaving me to face Garrett’s disapproving expression. He waits until she’s gone before speaking, his jaw tightening slightly at my sister’s parting shot.
“The board has some concerns about the Johnson strategy.”
Of course, they do. I gesture for him to continue, keeping my face neutral even as my pulse quickens.
“While Ms. Hastings’ presentation was enthusiastic,” he says the word like it’s a character flaw, “there are questions about the timeline. Brighton offers immediate integration with SolarTech’s systems. Our development schedule puts us eighteen months behind their technology.”
“Emma’s strategy cuts that gap to six months,” I counter. “Her integrated approach—“
“Is untested. And about placing such a crucial account in the hands of someone so...”
“Qualified?” I supply. “Innovative? The analyst who predicted the renewable energy market shift six months before our competitors?”
“Inexperienced.” He taps his tablet. “Her methods are unorthodox, her approach is overly familiar, and her tendency toward...” he pauses delicately, “physical mishaps are well-documented. The Johnsons are traditional energy sector leaders. They expect a certain level of gravitas.”
The coffee cup creaks in my grip as my fingers tighten involuntarily. I force myself to set it down before I do something unprofessional, like throw it at Garrett’s perfectly knotted tie. The way he’s talking about Emma—dismissing her brilliance because she occasionally trips over her own enthusiasm—makes me seethe in a way that has nothing to do with professional concerns.
“Ms. Hastings has my complete confidence,” I say evenly. “As does her strategy. The Johnsons don’t want another traditional analytics provider—they want a partner who understands where the industry is headed.”
“The board may not share your confidence.” His eyes flick to the family photos, lingering on my father’s image. “Your father always said personal feelings shouldn’t influence business decisions. Brighton’s offer includes guaranteed board positions for the Johnsons. Our counteroffer is feelings about sustainability.”
The implication hangs in the air between us, bitter and accusatory. That my judgment is compromised where Emma is concerned. That I’m letting personal history cloud my professional assessment. That I’m not my father.
I stand slowly, using my height advantage to full effect as I move around the desk. I don’t tower over him—Garrett’s tall himself—but it shifts the dynamic just enough.
“My father also said innovation requires risk,” I counter. “And that the difference between good companies and great ones is whether they recognize talent or just credentials. Emma’s strategy combines practical experience with our Project Phoenix innovations—something Brighton can’t match.”
“About that.” Garrett’s thin smile suggests I’m not going to like what comes next. “Brighton’s offering expires at the end of the week. By moving the presentation to this afternoon, we at least have a chance to counter before they sign.”
“This afternoon?” The words come out sharp. “That’s impossible. We need time to—“
“To what? Perfect Ms. Hastings’ unconventional approach? The Johnsons are being courted by Brighton as we speak. We need to show them concrete solutions, not experimental strategies.”
“Emma’s strategy is exactly what they need. Her approach could save them millions in implementation costs. She just needs time to—“
“Time is the one thing we don’t have, Mr. Walker.” He starts to leave, then pauses, one hand on the doorframe. “The board will be watching this presentation very carefully. I suggest you consider whether your attachment to certain personnel is clouding your judgment. Brighton’s offer includes a 10% premium on their stock value. Your father would never have let sentiment override shareholder interests.”
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me with the weight of his words and my father’s stern gaze from the wall.
For a moment, I just stand there, the quiet hum of the early morning office the only sound. There’s truth in what Garrett said, and that’s what makes it cut so deep. Dad would have made the practical choice. The numbers-driven choice. That was always the difference between us – I saw people where he saw profit margins.
I reach for my phone, pulling up Emma’s contact. My finger hovers over the call button as I remember her confidence in yesterday’s board meeting, the way she lit up explaining her ideas. She found an elegant solution to the Johnsons’ sustainability concerns. The way she naturally built on my comments, anticipating what I would say almost before I thought of it. Now I have to tell her we’re presenting in... I check my watch and swear under my breath. Six hours.
The board is testing me.
Testing us both. They’ve orchestrated this impossible deadline to prove their point—that I’m not ready for this responsibility, that Emma’s not capable of handling major accounts, that we’re both just playing at being professionals while Brighton closes in for the kill.
I hit dial before I can second-guess myself. Emma picks up on the first ring.
“Please tell me you’re calling to say you found my lucky presentation pen,” she says instead of hello. “I can’t face the Johnsons tomorrow without it. It’s gotten me through six board presentations, and that time I had to explain to your father why the R&D budget suddenly included a line item for ‘gravity-resistant office supplies.’”
The memory catches me off guard – Dad calling me into his office, trying to maintain his serious expression while showing me the budget item. “Your friend Miss Hastings has quite the creative accounting methods,” he’d said, the corner of his mouth twitching. Later, I’d learned Emma had accidentally knocked over an entire shelf of supplies during her pitch for new software, and Dad had been so impressed with her quick recovery that he’d approved the purchase on the spot.
My chest tightens. “About the presentation...”
There’s a pause, then: “Why do I hear impending disaster in your voice? And not the usual kind that involves me knocking things over?”
“Garrett moved the meeting.” I force the words out. “To this afternoon.”
The sound of something crashing comes through the phone, followed by muffled cursing. “Please tell me this is revenge for that time I accidentally signed you up for the senior center newsletter.”
“Emma...”
“No, wait, it’s karma for—“
“Em.” The nickname slips out before I can catch it, familiar and comforting. “I’m sorry. I tried to—“
“Stop.” Her voice steadies, that backbone of steel I’ve always admired emerging. “Don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault. The board is testing us, right? Trying to prove their point about the reformed party boy and the klutzy analyst? Well, they haven’t read my latest market projection models. Or seen how many sustainability awards the Johnson family has won in the last year.”
Sometimes, I forget how well she knows me. Knows all of us. How she can cut through pretense and posturing to the heart of a problem, then reconstruct it into something manageable.
“Six hours,” I say quietly. “Think we can prove that innovation beats tradition? That sustainability isn’t just a trend?”
“Please.” I can hear her smile through the phone. “I once helped you convince your mother that the living room furniture rearranged itself during an earthquake in Ohio. This is nothing. Besides, I just found three more efficiency metrics we can integrate into the Project Phoenix timeline.”
Despite everything, I laugh. The memory of sixteen-year-old Emma, straight-faced as she described to my mother how the earthquake had been “highly localized” and “most likely the result of underground tectonic anomalies specific to the Ohio River Valley.” Mom hadn’t believed us for a second, but she’d been so impressed with the elaborate explanation that we’d gotten off with just extra chores.
“That was a terrible excuse.”
“It worked, didn’t it? Now, are you going to help me modify this presentation to show exactly why Brighton’s one-size-fits-all approach can’t match our customized sustainability solutions, or do I need to start researching sudden-onset synchronized swimming as a business strategy?”
“You heard about that?”
“Lucas, everyone heard about that. There’s still a video somewhere of you teaching Morton the backstroke while explaining quarterly projections.”
The annual partners’ retreat at Matthews & Sterling had been unbearably stuffy until someone (me) suggested that the strategy discussion might be more productive by the pool. By midnight, I had the entire financial team demonstrating how our investment approach was like synchronized swimming—perfectly coordinated while appearing effortless to observers. The demonstration had become something of a company legend, earning me respect for innovative thinking and a reputation for unconventional methods.
I should be professional. I should maintain boundaries and not spend the next six hours in close quarters with the one person who makes me forget about boards, expectations, and legacies. The one person who makes me believe we might pull this off, not just for the company but for what we could build together.
I should send her an email with bullet points and schedule a brief meeting an hour before the presentation.
“I’ll bring coffee,” I say instead. “Decaf.”
“Probably wise.” Something else crashes in the background. “Oh, and Lucas?”
“Yeah?”
“I really do still have your…” She hesitates, and then her voice softens. “Never mind.”
I wait, the moment stretching between us, something unspoken hanging in the air. Even through the phone, I can feel the weight of it.
This is exactly what Project Phoenix represents—revolutionary ideas in a package traditional enough for the board to accept. That’s what we’ve always done best—rebellion wrapped in convention.
The line clicks dead before I can say goodbye, leaving me grinning at my phone like an idiot. My father’s photo seems to be judging me even harder now, his stern expression is a reminder of all the ways I’m handling this differently than he would have.
But maybe that’s the point. Dad built Walker Enterprises by following his instincts about people as much as markets. He saw something in Emma worth nurturing. Maybe this is exactly what he would have done, just with more gravitas and fewer coffee incidents.
Six hours to save the company’s biggest account, prove ourselves to the board, maintain professional boundaries with the woman who still sets my pulse racing, and maybe save the future of sustainable energy in the process.
No pressure.