Chapter 7
Silence fell like a guillotine.
The video ended, stalling on a screenshot of Dyer reaching toward the camera, and no one moved to change it. Fletcher’s fingers quivered, cortisol drumming through them. The rest of her went numb.
Retiring was one thing. Retiring meant Dyer would don a floppy sun hat, fly the coop to Florida, and live out the rest of his days as a snowbird.
Conducting a company retreat to kill himself and maroon the guests with limited resources to see who would be the last one standing? That was something else entirely.
Fletcher couldn’t look at any of the others—afraid of what she’d find in the darks of their eyes. Once, at a Lunch and Learn, Bertram bodychecked an associate to get the last serving of tiramisu. What would he do for a company with a multibillion-dollar valuation?
“What a nightmare,” Molly howled, clearly in her own personal HR hellscape.
“He was always off, that Dyer,” someone grouched very loudly. Probably Bertram.
“Did he say if we survive, we get the company?” Brian, or maybe Other Brian, asked, as if either one of them stood half a chance at lasting five days without Wi-Fi. “What does he mean, if?”
They had to be missing something. Fletcher’s panic carved out Melv—a pinprick surrounded by webbed black. He was the attorney, the voice of reason. Used to courtroom squabbles and complicated paperwork, he’d be able to decipher the will’s legalese. He’d make sense of this.
Steeling herself, Fletcher asked, “Melv, what exactly is going on? Is the will legitimate?”
Melv sighed like it took a tremendous effort. Poor guy had probably been looking forward to a day or two without culling through fine print. “Settle down, everybody. Let’s take a look.”
Between stretching his shirt collar and huffing impatiently, Melv managed to click a few buttons and pull the digital copy of the will up, still broadcasting onto the projector screen.
Through the legal jargon, Fletcher could hardly decipher anything.
Headers and subsections blurred together as Melv scrolled down the seemingly endless document.
“Section C, Section D…Oh.” Fletcher could practically hear the lump in Melv’s throat.
“Section E, subsection four. Survivorship will be determined on Lydell Island. Each invited guest is hereby considered a residuary beneficiary. This provision allows residuary beneficiaries to demonstrate leadership, resourcefulness, and confident decision-making in the kill-or-be-killed world of publishing.”
He glanced at his audience, the sanity of which hinged on his next word. The skin between his brows creased.
Melv kept reading. “Assets are not to be divided between the residuary beneficiaries prior to return to the Cartwright Media Legal offices at 674 Fifth Avenue, 58th floor, New York, NY 10022, after my last departure to Lydell Island. At which point one sole beneficiary will herein receive the full reward, claiming ownership over all assets, including Cartwright Media, LLC, and its subsidiaries. In the event none of the residuary beneficiaries claim ownership in thirty days, assets will be divided by the acting chairman of the board.”
Fletcher heard every word Melv spoke. And yet. And yet. None of the sounds out of his mouth registered. A stringy, suffocating silence unfolded as she suspected the rest of them tried to parse out the true meaning, too.
The engine they heard this morning? Dyer said he sent the staff members away, but now Fletcher realized it didn’t just mean they wouldn’t get turndown service.
They were trapped. On an island filled with vicious creatures.
Because her billionaire boss resigned them all to fight for his inheritance in some heinous display of late-capitalist greed.
No staff, no cellular data, no security from the animals.
It wasn’t just a matter of inheritance—but survival.
“So, that’s it?” Sheila squeaked. Could she even spell bequeathment?
Melv’s exhausted stare cut toward the intern. “No, there’re sixty-six more pages. But that’s the gist of it. At the end of the week, only one of us will become the proud new owner of Cartwright Media.”
Deepti took to pacing. “So, now we’re supposed to—what?—just pick someone to inherit the company? Obviously, I’m picking me.”
At that, dissident voices roared around the room.
No one believed they were any less deserving than the person sitting next to them.
The Lydell guest list suddenly made a lot more sense—the C-suite’s seniority, Melv’s cool-tempered problem-solving, Molly’s ability to successfully navigate company politics, and Joplin’s creativity.
Marketing and Sales were wild cards, but Fletcher had seen them all sacrifice something for the company.
Skipped lunches, missed parties, late nights.
Any one of them could argue their spot for the helm.
But…stranding them in the Indian Ocean to work out the details? That was overkill, even for Dyer.
Melv quieted the room. “We have until the rescue crew comes to decide.”
“Assuming any of us live that long,” Jackie sulked.
Every head in the room swiveled toward her. Reproachful.
Jackie only shrugged. “Don’t look at me. Dyer’s the one who abandoned us here, and this island is teeming with predators on the hunt for easy prey. You heard the same will reading I did. If my options are kill or be killed, I know which one I’m choosing.”
Fletcher’s mind spun, a run-on sentence. What on earth is going on and how do I get out of here and do all company retreats devolve into a ritualistic sacrifice?
Waylon laughed. The humorless sound soaked up the room’s lingering conversations.
Melv clasped his hands in front of him. “Something you’d like to share?”
Wiping beneath his eyes, Waylon mopped up unshed tears. “No. Please, go on. If you want to kill each other to entertain my dad’s final fucked-up wishes, be my guest.”
“No one is killing anyone,” Raul countered. He leveled Jackie with a hard glance. “We can hold a civil discussion. It doesn’t have to be anarchy.”
“You heard Dyer. Lydell’s a hunting ground. Always has been,” Jackie said like it was obvious.
Joplin, the voice of the people, said, “You’re talking about murder. Murder is illegal.”
“That’s enough, everyone. The will doesn’t specify how the beneficiary is decided. But…” Melv’s mouth flattened. “Nothing is illegal on Lydell.”
Theo had said something similar in the truck. Fletcher hadn’t thought it would matter so much. The truth of it settled over all fifteen of them, itchy and uncomfortable. Dyer had left them to determine the inheritance of the company by any means necessary.
But he couldn’t have intended for anyone to die over it.
“This is ridiculous.” Waylon shoved himself off the couch. “You’re all pathetic, you know that? My dad’s dead, and he’s still finding ways to pull your puppet strings.”
Unrattled, Melv said, “Waylon, please. I know you haven’t been with the company for quite some time, but people’s livelihoods are on the line.”
“And people’s lives,” Jackie echoed.
Waylon’s stare hardened. “You’re right. I don’t work at Cartwright Media now. I don’t want to work at Cartwright Media ever. Do what you want, but leave me the hell out of it.”
No one stopped him as he stormed out, vanishing down the hallway.
Joplin sniffled once. Twice. The harbinger of an ear-piercing wail. The sound was a fissure in the dam, holding back the grief, the fear, the fury inside the rest of them. Voices rose to the rafters, each one louder and more volatile than the next.
“Great. We’re just supposed to sit around arguing about who becomes a billionaire while we wait for some crew to get us off this godforsaken island?” Opal sagged to the couch, exhausted by the thought alone.
Opposite her, Theo jerked upright. The poor man’s skin stretched red and thin, like a balloon seconds away from popping. “Sounds like the lot of us will be dead by then.”
Raul tugged him back to the cushions. “Hold on. No one is dying.”
“Except Dyer,” Molly brooded.
Asshole Rick butted forward. “And now we’re all fucked.”
For once in her life, Fletcher agreed with him. They were all totally, completely fucked.
“This is barbaric! No one is inheriting the company like this,” Joplin tried. Her gaze wandered back to Melv, and Fletcher’s followed. Waiting for him to step in. Waiting for him to say they were wrong.
“Someone has to,” Rick said, woefully unhelpful.
Never mind, she still hated him.
“Stand down, Rick.” Theo pushed himself off the sofa with a grunt. Paced toward Rick at the head of the room. “I’ll meet with the rest of upper management, and we’ll decide who takes over. This doesn’t concern you.”
Something contorted Rick’s face, all wrinkled and puffy. His quick temper flared. “Sure it does. I’m as eligible as any of you to inherit the company. Why settle for taking your job when I could take over all of Cartwright Media?”
Theo stepped forward. Loafer to loafer. “Is that a threat?”
“Was it a threat when you nominated Opal for last quarter’s commission bonus even though my sales were higher?” Asshole Rick bit back.
Across the room, where Opal had been poorly consoling Joplin, her head perked up. “Hey, I worked with higher-profile accounts. Leave me out of your pissing match.”
Theo started, “Like me, Opal’s a go-getter. You want something at this company, you’ve got to work for it. I eat, sleep, and breathe Cartwright Media, and I have for the last two decades. Why don’t you—”
Melv moved between them, hands out to physically separate them. “Before anyone does something regrettable, why don’t we all take fifteen? I’ll take a closer look at this will, and we’ll regroup.”