Chapter 2
Breht Merloft loosened his tie as he left the boardroom. The summer heat was stifling, but that wasn't why he felt suffocated. Another acquisition. Another set of small businesses squeezed for profit margins that barely registered in Merloft Corp's accounts. He was sick of it.
"Good meeting today, Mr Merloft," one of his colleagues said, tapping his thick bicep.
Was it? All Breht could think about was the shop owners who'd just received eviction notices. What was another ten thousand to a multi-billion-pound company?
"Thanks, Biff," he replied, keeping his tone neutral.
"Mr Merloft!" A stern voice cut through the corridor. He turned to see his mother—Dura, CEO of Merloft Corp—beckoning him into her office with one sharp finger.
He followed. The office was stark and cold, bereft of ornamentation except for a single silver picture frame on her desk.
His deceased brother stared out from it; the son she'd actually wanted.
Breht had spent fifteen years trying to be enough, and he'd never measured up.
He'd learned years ago not to look directly at it.
"Dura," he greeted her formally, taking the seat she indicated.
"You weren't happy in today's meeting," she stated without question.
No point lying. "You're right. I wasn't."
"Why's that?"
"I thought the rent hike was unfair," Breht said, leaning forward.
"Those businesses will struggle to cope.
Why not invest in them instead? Turn them around, make them viable.
Then they'll pay us rent and a percentage of their profits.
" He paused, his voice dropping. "Businesses aren't numbers. They're people's livelihoods."
"It's too much of a gamble," Dura dismissed.
"It doesn't have to be."
She raised an eyebrow. "Explain."
"Pick one business from the complex. I'll take it, turn it around. If I succeed, Merloft gets a reliable tenant and an investment return. If I fail, you were right."
Dura rose from her desk and moved to the filing cabinet behind her, withdrawing three ring-bound folders. She returned to her seat and laid them out before her in a deliberate line, as if arranging pieces on a chessboard.
The first folder she opened was a café, established, profitable, and minimal risk. She studied the financials for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she set it aside.
The second was a boutique clothing store. Struggling, but with a recognisable brand and existing customer loyalty. She flicked through the pages methodically, her fingers tracing the profit margins as though calculating something beyond the numbers. She set this one aside as well.
The third folder remained closed for a moment.
Dura's fingers rested on its spine, and when she finally opened it, Breht caught a glimpse of something different—photographs interspersed with financial data.
She studied the pages slowly, deliberately, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as she turned each one.
A delicate paua shell necklace. Handwritten notes. Customer testimonials tucked between images like pressed flowers. A mission statement painted on driftwood. The photographs told a story of meticulous care, of a business built on passion rather than profit margins.
Dura closed the folder and slid it across the desk toward him with deliberate precision.
"This one," she said quietly.
Breht opened it and immediately stopped scanning for numbers. Instead, his eyes caught on the first page. A photograph of a delicate paua shell necklace, iridescent blues and greens catching the light. It looked handmade in a world obsessed with mass production; someone cared about this.
His dark eyes scanned the document, giving him a brief overview of the company - a jewellery-making adventure that had dwindling profits that just about covered expenses; rent included.
He grumbled to himself as he read, running his hand across his carefully groomed beard as he scanned the information.
A business like this was a dime a dozen in hot-spot touristic towns, and he felt prompted to ask, “Why this one?”
The smile that greeted him was merciless, “Because it’s the one you have the greatest chance of failing at.”
Those words instantly haunted him. There was no vote of confidence in the woman who had given birth to him.
Just the expectation that he’d fail in his announced endeavours.
He tucked the report into his leather bag and, without a word, stood from his seat.
She knew exactly how to cut to his heart, the timing of her words a perfect skewer, stopping his beats.
A verbal knife wound that only twisted when she spoke again.
Breht took the folder back, his eyes dropping to the cover. There, embossed in silver lettering, was the business name: Ohpaua.
And beneath it, the owner's name: Brierley Mirren.
His breath caught. It couldn’t be. Not after all these years.
“We’re having dinner tonight with Mr and Mrs Reiyroris,” the stern woman imparted, and a fresh wave of dread crashed over him, stopping him in his tracks. “They tell me that Rosani will be joining us.”
“In that case, I’ll pass,” Breht stated as firmly as possible. “I’d rather get to work on this,” he added, raising his bag a fraction.
“Breht,” that cold, calculating voice stated his name. He knew what it meant, that she’d suffer no argument from him, but his resolve didn’t crack.
“No, Ma. Not this time. I can’t,” he cut her off.
Wishing for once that she’d hold him up, support him in some manner, rather than let him crash.
His Ma always seemed determined to undermine him in some way.
All the mistakes rested entirely on his broad shoulders for him to carry; it was no wonder he was cracking under the pressure of their burden.
“Has something happened between you two again?” She questioned.
“Yes,” he confessed, but didn’t elaborate.
Dura’s expression didn’t soften. “What did you do this time? Rosani is a lovely girl, I hope you’ve not upset her.”
Lovely, if fighting wildcats was your definition of the word. “I left a dirty cup on her mantlepiece,” was all the energy he could muster.
Dura gave him a disapproving look.
“I know, you raised me better than to leave my dirty things all over the place,” he agreed with her wordless comment.
“What should I tell Mr and Mrs Reiyroris?” Dura wanted to know.
“Tell them I’m away on business, it’s hardly a lie,” he uttered behind his tusks.
He had every intention of staying away from the corporate building for a few days, hiring himself a hotel by the beach.
Relaxing in the summer sunshine while he worked on turning this terrible business around.
What was it called, something silly like Ohlala?
The corner of his mouth flickered into a grin, relishing the challenge that lay ahead.
Finally, getting to prove his Matriarch wrong.
That he could succeed in his business adventures and that he’d make a fine partner to take over Merloft when she was ready to hand over the baton to him.
Regardless of whether that was what he wanted from his life or not.
“You’re welcome to three days’ leave, and I expect daily reports,” Dura informed him as he put his hand on the doorknob to depart.
Three days? His eyes widened in the shock of it. Three days to turn an entire business around. A business that had no idea he was even going to turn up on their doorstep and make, most likely, unwanted changes to the way they ran things. Three days were nothing.
“Seven,” he said, without turning around. A week would be ample time to get things underway.
“Four,” Dura relented.
“Six,” Breht pressed the negotiation.
“Five, and I still expect daily reports.”
“Agreed,” he finalised.
There would be no more pushing for additional time after that final agreement, and he left the room with determined confidence.
If he couldn’t turn around a profit in that time, then no one could!
Already, his mind was afire with how he could change things for the better, what gaps in the market he could tap into and exploit.
Soon, Ohpaua would be one of the most successful independent businesses in the region!
He flipped back to one of the photographs—a delicate paua shell necklace, iridescent blues and greens catching the light. He could almost see her hands making it, could almost hear the careful concentration in her silence.
A real challenge. Not some corporate restructuring exercise. Not another test designed to prove his inadequacy.
Something that mattered.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled it out. A text notification lit the screen: "I miss you. Rx."
Rosani.
He stared at the message for a moment, then swiped it away. Deleted.
The folder remained open on his lap, Brierley's name visible beneath his fingers.