CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ledger
Nine Years Ago
“Don’t go anywhere, Ledger.” Callahan and Ford dart glances my way as they make their way around the conference room table toward the door. Both of them just as curious as I am as to why our dad has requested that I stay behind when they get to leave.
I lower myself back down into my seat as Callahan mouths the word “sucker” to me before flashing a grin and heading out the door.
Fucker.
My dad moves toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the conference room. His daily uniform is in place: starched, white dress shirt, a solid, bold-colored tie, gold cufflinks that my mom gave him on his birthday the year she passed, and dark gray slacks.
I look at him expectantly, my knee jogging as the collar of my own dress shirt feels like it’s tightening around my neck. And I wait.
No one rushes my father. He speaks when he wants to, and when he chooses to, you best be listening.
“It wasn’t good enough,” he says in a calm tone, his back still toward me.
What in the hell is he talking about?
“Dad? Sir?”
He turns to face me, his head angled to the side—much like I do when I study someone—and my palms grow damp with anticipation.
“Professor Blackman recorded your presentation for me.”
He had my mock proposal presentation recorded so he could critique it? What the actual fuck? Is there any place his far-reaching arms can’t touch? My professor at Wharton? Jesus fucking Christ.
“You know Blackman?”
The muscle tics in his jaw as he takes his time answering. “It’s a small world, Ledger. That’s something you best remember.”
Now that the shock has almost worn off, the anger starts to fire. “What do you mean it wasn’t good enough? Blackman said it was excellent. The content. The packaging. The presentation.” I’m top of my cohort. Top of my fucking class. What in the hell does he mean it’s not good enough?
“I would have fired you.” He shrugs with indifference as if he didn’t just rip me apart.
“It was sloppy and meandering. Your figures need work. Your presence needs to be more commanding.” He takes a few steps toward me as I try to keep my face stoic, despite how his words devastate me. “What have I always told you?”
“Set goals. Meet goals. Adjust the goalposts. Start over again,” I say, repeating the mantra he has drilled into my head.
“Good.” He nods and crosses his arms over his chest where he stands a few feet from me. “Tell me what yours are right now.”
I struggle momentarily to come up with them. “Graduate Wharton. Take my place beside you here at Sharpe.”
“And after that?”
“After that?” I ask.
“Yes. After that? Where do you reset the goalposts to?” If someone were to overhear us, they’d think my father was talking about the weather. Only my brothers and I know this tone means anything but that. He’s getting irritated.
Well, so am I.
Why aren’t Ford or Callahan in here getting the third goddamn degree?
Callahan is the one who dropped out of Wharton, for fuck’s sake, and is already working here.
Why doesn’t he have to reset his goalposts?
Ford is busy being Ford, gladly flying under the radar without the pressure of being the oldest or the ease of being the youngest.
“After that, son, what is next? Take the company from me? Work on taking us internationally? Make Forbes magazine before you’re forty? Carry on the family name? What. Is. Next?”
“Dad. Yes. To all of that,” I stammer out.
“Not good enough, Ledge.” His voice rises in pitch. “Not for you, anyway. Do you want to shame the Sharpe name with your laissez-faire attitude? My firstborn. My protégé—”
“Callahan is already working here. Ford will be soon too.” I shove up out of my chair, needing to move. To pace. To not be sitting down while he stands tall over me. “Did you have this talk with them too? Did you demand to know their goals?”
“No.” The chill is back in his voice, and it infuriates me.
“No? Why the hell not?”
“Check your tone.”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose and bite back the retort on my tongue. When I turn back around, I hope he sees the love and frustration in my eyes. The want to please, but also the need to be my own man. My respect for him but not how he goes about things sometimes.
“I ask this of you, son, because I know you’re capable of it.
I demand this because nothing less than perfection is good enough.
” His tone softens for the first time in this conversation.
“The three of you are my legacy, but you, son . . . you have something special that money or education can’t buy.
I’m looking to you to uphold the Sharpe name in more ways than I ever could. ”
I hate that my throat burns with emotion as I nod in response.
“I want a status report every Monday morning from you. What your goals are for the week. Which ones you completed last week. Structure and planning equal success.”
“Yes, sir.”
He walks over to where I stand, puts a hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. “We didn’t do all this work, all of this posturing, for you to be second best, son.” When his eyes meet mine there is so much pride in them that it makes my chest ache.
Is he a hard son of a bitch to work for? Definitely.
Is he a perfectionist to the nth degree? Indisputably.
Does he love the three of us unconditionally? Yes, each in our own way.
So why does a lump form in my throat at his praise?
Because he’s my idol. Because when your idol criticizes you, it’s hard not to be overwhelmed.
“I won’t let you down, Dad.”
He nods and pats my back. “Expectations are a funny thing. They can weigh you down or they can make you shine. What will your response be?”