Chapter 5
MEREDITH
One Week Later
Twelve pairs of eyes turn to me. Some curious, some skeptical, a few downright hostile. Cole is behind me as always, silent and watchful.
"Our research indicates that sustainability messaging resonates strongly with millennial and Gen Z luxury consumers," Marcus, our head of brand development, says. "They want ethical sourcing, transparent supply chains—"
"But the numbers don't support a complete pivot. Look at the third quarter projections."
I gesture toward the screen. "Our customers want sustainable products, yes, but they're not willing to sacrifice quality or aesthetic.
The serpentine jewelry line maintained platinum-level sales while incorporating ethical sourcing.
The knotted handbag collection, which led with sustainability messaging over luxury positioning, underperformed by twenty-eight percent. "
Eric Patterson clears his throat, the sound heavy with condescension. "Miss Ashton, with all due respect, we've built this company's reputation on traditional luxury values. This trend-chasing will dilute our brand equity."
There it is. The dismissal I've been expecting since I took my seat at the head of the table.
"It's not trend-chasing, Eric," I say, keeping my voice level. "It's responding to market evolution. Our customers want both—luxury craftsmanship and ethical production. They don't see these as mutually exclusive anymore."
Patterson's mouth tightens. "We've been positioning our brands this way for decades. I don't think—"
"Actually, Meredith has a point," Sandra Park cuts in, her dark eyes sharp. "The data supports exactly what she's saying. My team's research shows that consumers under forty specifically seek out brands with ethical practices. Doesn't matter if it's a simple bar of soap or baby lotion."
Joyce Martinez nods. "The numbers speak for themselves. We maintain price point and prestige in our jewelry line, but we also emphasize ethical sourcing."
"Meredith represents exactly who we're trying to sell to," Karen Abernathy adds, tapping her pen and lifting a brow at Patterson. "We should be paying attention and not dismiss her so easily."
I feel a flush of gratitude for these women. They've been here longer than I have, fought battles I'm only beginning to understand.
"Thank you," I say. "I'm not suggesting we abandon our luxury positioning. I'm saying we enhance it by also being more transparent about craftsmanship and materials. Our customers are sophisticated enough to want both."
Marcus looks relieved. "That's exactly what I was trying to suggest. Not a pivot away from luxury, but an evolution of how we present it."
I notice several board members nodding now. Even some of the old men seem to be considering my perspective. I straighten slightly in my chair, feeling more confident.
"Let's move to the expansion plans for Ashton Square, Tokyo," I say.
The meeting continues this way for another hour.
Each time I speak up, Patterson or one of the other male members pushes back.
Each time, Sandra, or Joyce, or one of the younger executives supports my position.
By the third time it happens, I'm no longer waiting for validation before expressing my opinion.
Reading the quarterly earnings report, I point out that the Ashton Collective's beauty division is outperforming projections by fourteen percent.
"We should increase investment in that sector," I say. "Particularly in the Asian markets where our growth is strongest."
Patterson opens his mouth to object, but I continue before he can speak.
"I visited our Tokyo and Seoul locations personally with my father last year. The customer response to our skincare line was overwhelming. We need to capitalize on that momentum."
Sandra nods enthusiastically. "I've been saying this for months. Our Asian market is primed for expansion."
Patterson looks like he's swallowed something sour, and I pretend not to notice.
By the time we reach the end of the agenda, the energy in the room has shifted. The initial skepticism has given way to something else—not universal respect, not yet, but a grudging acknowledgment that I might actually know what I'm talking about. That I'm more than my father's shadow.
"If there's nothing else, we'll adjourn until next month," I say, gathering my papers.
The room empties, and I catch Cole's eyes briefly.
His expression remains professional, but there's a heat in his gaze that sends a shiver down my spine.
One week since the car. One week of his hands, his mouth, his body against mine whenever we're alone.
One week of discovering how well we fit together.
I stand, smoothing my skirt, and follow the board members into the hallway.
Sandra, Joyce, and Karen immediately gather around me.
"You were excellent in there," Sandra says, her voice low. "Patterson looked like he was about to puke."
Joyce laughs. "Finally, someone at the top who actually understands our customer base. Robert would be proud. He was always asking your opinion, even when you were just in college."
The mention of Dad brings a pang, but it's softer now, edged with pride rather than just grief.
"You know this business in and out," Karen adds. "Anyone who says otherwise is a fool."
"Thank you," I say, genuinely touched. "I couldn't have done it without your support."
"Don't let those men intimidate you," Joyce says, squeezing my arm. "You belong here. And not just because of your name."
Sandra pulls out her phone. "Let's exchange numbers. We should meet for drinks soon … without the men." She winks.
We swap contact information, and I feel something unfamiliar—a sense of belonging, of having allies who see me as more than Robert Ashton's daughter. Future friends, even if they're all twice my age.
"We've got your back," Karen says. "It's about time we had a CEO who actually represents our core demographic. You know more about what bags and skincare products would sell than fifty-eight-year-old Patterson."
After they leave, I turn to find Cole waiting patiently, his expression neutral but his eyes revealing his pride.
"My office?" I ask.
He nods, following at a respectful distance as we make our way down the corridor. The staff we pass nod deferentially, some offering hellos and congratulations on my new position. I wonder how many of them doubted me and how many still do.
At this point, however, I don't really care. They will eventually see how I operate.
Inside my office, Cole locks the door behind us and leans against it, arms folded across his chest.
"What's up?" I ask, slightly breathless from the lingering adrenaline of the board meeting.
Cole doesn't answer. Instead, he crosses the room with long strides and drops to his knees before me.
The air leaves my lungs. "Cole?"
"You were magnificent in there," he says, his voice rough with desire. His hands slide up my calves, beneath my skirt. "Let me show you how proud I am."
His fingers hook into my underwear, drawing it down my legs. I step out of them, heart racing, my core pulsing with need.
"Anyone could come in," I whisper, even as heat pools between my thighs.
"Door's locked," he says, looking up at me with those storm-gray eyes. "And I need to taste you."
He lifts my skirt, guides one of my legs over his shoulder. The first touch of his mouth against me sets me on fire. I gasp, gripping the edge of my desk with both hands.
"Cole," I moan, fighting to stay quiet.
He drags his tongue along my slit, circling my clit before dipping lower. My hand slams over my mouth to silence myself as he works me with his mouth, his fingers wrap around and dig into my thighs to hold me steady.
"So perfect," he growls against my flesh. "So beautiful. My CEO."
His words send a fresh wave of arousal through me. He feels it, groans against me, and doubles his efforts. This time, he dips his tongue into my pussy, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from moaning loudly.
"You put Patterson in his place and looked like a goddess doing it," he says, planting open-mouthed kisses to my folds and sucking my juices.
The pleasure builds rapidly, coiling tight in my belly. I'm rocking against his mouth now, propriety forgotten. The risk of being in my office, of someone knowing what we're doing, only heightens the sensation.
I feel wetness oozing. He laps at me, his tongue works overtime on my inner thighs, my groin, my crease, working my folds apart, sliding his tongue up and down, and pushing into my center.
Everywhere soaked. Every nerve lit. My body on fire, straddled like a feast laid out on my desk. Laid out for Cole.
"Come for me," Cole says, his voice vibrating against me. "Let me feel you come on my tongue."
His fingers join his mouth, sliding inside me as his tongue focuses on my clit. The dual sensation pushes me over the edge. I come with a muffled cry, my body clenches around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through me.
He works me through it, softening his touch as I become too sensitive. When he finally pulls away, his eyes are dark with desire, his lips wet. His tongue darts out and cleans them up. “Mmm, tasty, Ma’am.”
"Cole, you're crazy."
"I know, baby, and that's just the beginning." He rises to his feet and kisses me deeply, letting me taste myself on his tongue. "Tonight, I'm going to take my time with you, and you can scream and moan all you want."
"I am not a screamer."
Cole just lifts a brow. "Interesting… My memory disagrees."
With a chuckle, I smack his arm lightly, which is pretty much like trying to hit a wall.
We compose ourselves, straightening clothes and hair.
I feel languid, satisfied, and powerful.
The combination of the successful board meeting and Cole's attention has me floating. I stand and tidy some reports from my desk. No point. They’re soaked.
I scoop them straight into the bin. Grab some tissues to wipe down.