Chapter 3
RAFE
The day after Paige Wilde becomes my wife, she steps onto my plane like it’s a stage. Of course a woman who made a late entrance to her own courthouse wedding wouldn’t board a jet quietly.
She’s twenty minutes late again.
I pretend to ignore the ways she inspects the plane.
Looking around like she’s a connoisseur.
Like every inch is there to be judged, and she’s happy to oblige.
That long blonde hair is braided down her back today.
She’s in a navy set, soft-looking pants and a sweatshirt, hiding her lithe frame. But her smile is just as sharp.
She introduces herself to my crew and spends a few long minutes chatting with them, tasting the champagne, making them laugh. Making friends. I tune her out and focus on the Mather and nothing compared to the old, storied brands we already own and manage.
Mather & Wilde is a blip. A means to an end. It’s the settling of a score, the decimation of a rival, and good business. Nothing more and nothing less.
“That’s the one thing you’re good at, isn’t it? Turning a profit,” she says.
“A compliment? I’m flattered.”
She runs her hand along the edge of the armrest. The plane speeds up in sharp acceleration and her hand comes to a stop. Her fingers tighten around the edge of it, just for a second, as the plane’s wheels leave ground.
“I’d like to negotiate,” she says.
I lean back in the chair. “We’ve already negotiated. Through our lawyers. Before we signed the marriage contract.”
“I know. Not that we were in particularly… equal situations,” she says. Her eyes narrow, like I’m at fault for that.
Which is true.
I have a team of eleven lawyers on retainer. The marriage contract has been thoroughly managed, sorted through, and waterproofed. My team handled all of that. The only thing Paige and her single lawyer had to do was say yes or no.
“No. We weren’t,” I say.
Her lips thin. “Will you tell me something? Now that you’ve won. Why did your father first set his sights on us?”
What a question. Maison Valmont started buying their shares over a decade ago.
I drum my fingers against the armrest. “Mather & Wilde has potential. It’s one of the few American brands with a legacy and a story behind it. That legacy was underutilized and in poor management.”
“You bought the first stake at under five per cent so you wouldn’t have to disclose ownership.”
I incline my head. Laws are meant to be followed, and we followed every single one of them. To the letter.
“And then you continued to buy shares, didn’t you?” Her voice hardens, and there’s a dripping venom beneath it. “First your father, and then you. Through trusts to hide your name. Quietly. Year after year.”
Her eyes are sharp on mine.
Let her hate me, I think. It’ll make this whole thing so much simpler, and far sweeter. I don’t particularly like her either.
“Yes,” I say. “Mather & Wilde’s leadership should have been more careful who they sold shares to. Or done well enough to not need outside investors at all.”
“It was underhanded.”
“It was legal.”
“You wrapped a noose around our necks, and then you waited until the eleventh hour before you told us about the rope,” she spits out.
“And yet you chose to take that rope, hoping we’d pull you out of the hole your uncle dug.
If it wasn’t for us—if it wasn’t for me—he would have driven it into the ground.
You’ve seen these numbers. You know how close your company is to the brink.
That’s why you sent me the email in the first place. ”
“Because you left us with no other choice but you,” she says. If she’s expecting a strong reaction from me, she won’t get it.
I don’t lose control.
Not in boardrooms. Not in meetings. And certainly not on a plane with my newly arranged wife. The only time I let myself come apart is late at night, when I seek out pain. It’s good at reminding me of the scars I carry.
“Think what you like,” I say, and look back down at my laptop. It’s a clear dismissal, and I’m counting on it to annoy her even more.
She’s quiet for almost a full minute.
I wonder if that’s a record for her.
“Are you always this fun at thirty-thousand feet?” she asks.
“Are you always this pushy?”
She stretches out long legs in the center aisle. “Only when it feels like I’m on a hostage transport.”
“You’re flying to Italy on a private jet,” I tell her. “And as far as I recall, you sent me the email with your proposal.”
It would have been a lot easier if it wasn’t her, I think.
If it was anyone else. Someone who didn’t have this clawing need to argue about every single thing. Someone who didn’t have teeth and blood-red claws and distractingly long blonde hair.
“I’d like to talk about Mather & Wilde,” she says.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“What we’re going to do. How we’re going to get it back on its feet.” She reaches into her bag. A Mather & Wilde bag, I notice. The material is made from old boat sails, true to its New England identity. The clasp has a tiny anchor charm, a logo that the company underutilizes.
“You came prepared,” I say.
She pulls out her laptop. “Of course I did.”
“Not the computer. The bag. And let me guess…” I reach down and tap her bare ankle, stretched out in the aisle. “Those boat shoes are also Mather & Wilde. You wore your two most iconic products to the flight today to make a point.”
“Consider it armor,” she says. “Let’s get started.”
“Talking about your company wasn’t on my list of things to do on this flight.”
“I have ideas.” She opens her laptop. “I’ve been waiting years for my uncle to step down. I have thoughts—”
“You’ve been biding your time, then, haven’t you?” It’s hard to hide the distaste in my voice. “Waiting for the right moment to wrest control away.”
Her gaze flicks to mine. “I was promised input in this deal. Yes, I understand that you’re going to appoint an acting CEO of your choice instead of my uncle, but I’m still the deputy director of PR.”
She talks as if she’s won.
But I’ve negotiated billion-euro deals in multiple languages. Dissolved age-old boards, rewritten the bones of legacy brands, and ensured the stability and growth of some of Europe’s oldest brands. There are a thousand things I have to do before Mather & Wilde’s prospects hits my desk.
“I’m aware. The ink isn’t dry yet, Wilde. My team has just started to review the company details you’ve just sent over.”
Her red nails tap against the table between us.
And they don’t stop.
I look up from my laptop to find her staring at me. There’s that gleam in her eye like she had yesterday, standing in front of the officiant, like she hates my guts and wants me to know it.
I do know it.
And it doesn’t bother me.
“I wasn’t about to do it before we’d officially married,” she says.
“Clearly not, no.” I look back down at my laptop. There is always work to do, and it’s a much better use of my time than losing myself in pointless, distracting arguments with my new wife. “Now if you’ll forgive me, I have better things to do.”