Chapter 3
KAT
Ten Weeks Later
My jaw clenches as my email pings with yet another notification.
I shrug and roll my shoulders to ease the tension in my back and neck. It reminds me that I need to book a deep-tissue massage with Carla.
I fire off a message, and my phone chimes almost instantly.
CARLA:
See you at eight at the hotel.
I give her message a thumbs up before turning and opening my email. I grimace as fifty new messages from the past ten minutes download.
At least I knew this was coming and have set things in motion.
Not that the board knows this. I’m sworn to secrecy. And looking at the messages, they’re the ones blowing up my phone and email.
There’s a knock at my door.
“Come in.”
Michael, my PA, bursts through the door, waving Sunday’s copy of The Edition, the leading UK newspaper.
“Have you seen it?” he asks, approaching my desk. He stops, drawing up short and shaking his head. “Of course you have.”
His expression is one of admiration. He seems to think I’m all-knowing and all-powerful. The consummate professional. It would never cross his mind that I might slip up, miss something.
How little he knows me.
He, like so many others, can’t see past the persona I’ve spent years cultivating.
“I’m so dumb,” he says, chastising himself.
I frown. That’s one thing Michael is not. If he were, he wouldn’t be working for me.
His eyes widen suddenly, and he snaps his fingers.
“That’s why you’ve been stonewalling the development,” he says, grinning.
I sit back in the chair and rest my hands flat on the desk.
“Not so dumb,” I say, and his smile widens.
“How?”
“I can’t reveal my source, but in business, it helps to have friends in a variety of places. Always remember that.”
It was one of the first pieces of advice my father ever gave me. That and, “Never show your true feelings or insecurities so they can be used against you, Kitty Kat.”
In this case, it was Quentin Cavendish, head of the country’s largest media corporation and best friend of my baby brother, Caleb, who saved the day.
“So, what now?” Michael asks, taking a seat and pulling out his note taker.
I suppress a smile. Always ready to work. His enthusiasm knows no bounds.
“Send a memo to the press department. We’ll need to release a statement immediately distancing ourselves from Moorland and Sons.
The Frazer Hotel Group is no longer associated with them.
Call a meeting with the asset management team, tell Elliot we need to revisit the initial list of architects we compiled, find out who’s available, and review their pitches.
Arrange an emergency board meeting for Wednesday afternoon. ”
My heart sinks a little at the thought, but I keep my emotions in check. The original list was short, and Moorland and Sons were by far the best.
“I’m on it. Anything else?” Michael asks, standing up.
“I’ll let you know,” I say, as he heads towards the door.
As soon as the door closes, I spin my chair towards the window and drop my head back. I close my eyes against the incessant pounding in my head and release a breath, trying to force the rigid muscles in my shoulders to relax. Eight o’clock can’t come fast enough.
I open my eyes and head to the coffee machine I had installed in my office, just for moments like these. I lean against the sideboard as it does its thing. My mind races with questions as I rehash all the information I’ve received.
Come on, Kat, you’ve got this. You’ve dealt with setbacks before.
I pick up the coffee mug and cradle it in my hands, taking a sip. My stomach churns at the bitterness, reminding me I skipped breakfast. I move slowly to the window and stare out over the city. I really need to shake the heaviness sitting on my chest.
This is just one more crisis for me to overcome. It’s nothing new.
When Quentin called a couple of weeks ago, I wanted to scream. We’d just signed the contract with Moorland and Sons. He warned me he had a team of reporters investigating them, and that I should be careful.
At the time, it had been one more thing to add to my list of things that could and were going wrong.
Moorland and Sons is one of the few companies within the UK that focus on sustainability in their architectural designs.
They appeared perfect on the surface. Behind the scenes, however, it appears they’ve been paying off planning officers and buying officials.
Something Quentin’s newspaper uncovered and exposed over the weekend.
As a result of the exposé, they’re now under investigation, but the scandal is not something I want anywhere near the Frazer Hotel Group or our latest project.
It also means there’ll be a delay, something the board and our investors are not going to like.
This project is something I’ve worked hard to sell them, it’s my baby, and has been my vision for the FHG since before my father died.
But that’s me. I’m focused and driven to the point of obsession.
As one reporter wrote a couple of years ago.
Kathryn Frazer is the queen of the boardroom. She’s unafraid to rise to the challenge of running an international business even at her young age and is single-minded in pursuit of her goals.
The phone on my desk rings, and I move back to my desk.
“Michael,” I say, pressing the connect button.
“Caleb is on the line,” he says.
Ah, my brother. I shouldn’t be surprised.
He recently joined the board at my invitation.
The FHG is the founding company that built the Frazer fortune.
I felt it was important that another family member be present and have input in how it operates.
He’s pretty silent, letting me run the show, but it’s good to know he’s there.
“Thank you, put him through.” I hear the click as Michael connects us. “Hey, little brother.”
“Hey, Kat,” Caleb says. “I’ve just seen the newspaper. Please tell me Quentin gave you the heads up.”
I chuckle. “He did, but swore me to secrecy.”
As with all exposé pieces, the more people who know, the greater the chance the sting is leaked. As a result, Quentin gave me the heads up as a favour, but made it clear I wasn’t to discuss it with anyone, including Caleb.
His sigh of relief comes over loud and clear. I’m not sure why Caleb would doubt his friend, especially after all the help he’s given our family recently.
A wave of cold washes over me at the thought of Harper, our baby sister, alone on the other side of the world, all because of some sick bastard’s twisted mind games.
“So, what’s the plan?” Caleb asks.
I stifle a chuckle at his profound confidence that I have a plan.
“We’ll release a statement to the press distancing us from Moorland. Luckily, the project is still in its initial stages, so there’s minimal damage.”
Quentin’s heads-up ensured I refrained from handing over too much detail.
That reminds me, I need to send Quentin a box of wine. He saved my bacon on this one.
I write myself a note.
Contact Tristan St John, send Quentin a box of his favourite wine as a thank you.
This project has been years in the making, and will be ground-breaking if we succeed, the first of its kind and will cement the FHG as market leaders. It is therefore not something I want falling into our rivals’ hands.
“I’m scheduling a board meeting for Wednesday afternoon if you’re free? Michael will be sending out the invites shortly.”
“I’ll be there,” Caleb says. “What about other architects?”
“We have our previous list. I’m having Elliot revisit them with his team. Our biggest issue will be their availability and timeframes. It’s something I’ll discuss at the board meeting.”
There’s a pause, and I get the impression he wants to add something.
“Is there anything else?”
There’s another pause.
“No, see you on Wednesday, sis.”
Caleb disconnects before I can say anything else.
I sit back in my chair, finding my centre as I work to refocus my energy. My muscles tighten in readiness as the caffeine hits, and I prepare for what’s to come.
You’ve got this.
This is, after all, what I’m good at. Circumnavigating obstacles and strategising.
Yes, it’s been a stressful couple of months, first finding out about Zach and Lottie, the cyberattack on both Elijah’s company and the hotel, Harper’s scandal, and now this.
I’m beginning to wonder if someone is trying to see how far I can be pushed.
I open my drawer and take out some painkillers. Swallowing them down with the leftover coffee.
Leaning back in my chair, I close my eyes and exhale loudly. I’m tired, so bone-wearily tired.
No time for a pity party, there’s work to do.
I shake off my fatigue and sit forward, pulling up my ideas sheet for the new hotel development.
Moorland were a good fit. He understood my vision, or at least what I’d shared with him.
It’s a shame he’s corrupt. But I’m not going to let that stop me.
Where one door closes, another one opens, or so everyone tells me.
I just have to be patient and see where and what it is.