Chapter 5 #2
Or so she hoped.
As usual, all chatter ceased abruptly as she stepped inside and made her way across the plush, forest-green carpet to where six men sat around a long conference table.
If only the floors here were marble like the lobby so she could draw strength from the tapping of her heels.
But no, the room had been specifically designed and decorated to humiliate her, soundproofed and carpeted so she was hyperaware of the stony silence that greeted her entrance.
Some of the men averted their eyes as she pulled out a cushy executive chair for herself, while others offered tight but polite smiles before deferring their gazes to the tall, salt-and-pepper-haired man seated at the head of the table.
Her father was a commanding presence, thin-lipped and sporting the deep forehead lines of a gentleman who furrowed his brows often.
Cynthia knew he was similar in age to the other men in the room, all over the age of fifty, but unlike most of them, his energy was entirely different: simmering, driven, boundless.
He would turn sixty-three this July and Cynthia was certain that her mother would plan an opulent birthday party in his honor.
For all his workaholic tendencies, her father loved those parties, and everyone at Kumar Construction, from the office staff to the foremen and their crews, would be invited.
“As I was saying,” Rich said, his voice steady under the rapt attention of six sets of eyes, some adoring, others curious, and, in Cynthia’s case, irritated.
She was mad at herself for allowing Jilly to tardy her arrival and more than a little chafed that her attendance was, as usual, treated as if she had stumbled in here at random.
Since insisting her way into these meetings a few months ago, she’d never felt welcome among the stale male departmental leaders at Kumar Construction.
Deep down, Cynthia knew her father had only granted her access because she was his daughter, even though she’d made a solid argument for including a marketing and brand specialist in the room where strategic decisions were made.
The others were less tolerant, but that didn’t stop Cynthia from showing up, ready to have her say.
It would never stop her.
“If we’re going to expand into Vancouver competitively,” her father continued, “we need to do so with the future in mind.” Immediately, the grizzled heads seated around the table—as well as the reflective, bald ones—nodded in unison.
Expansion into such a large city would open a lot of doors for Kumar Construction, and Cynthia tried not to dwell on her already full work schedule spreading even thinner for a whole new market.
She’d have to reevaluate her color-coding system. Poor Jilly.
“And so,” Rich added, “we’re going to buy out Feirhair.”
Cynthia cocked an eyebrow. “Feirhair is a motel chain from the seventies.”
“It is.” Her father nodded in her direction once before addressing the others. “I’ve been in contact with their vice president and I’m getting the impression that they’d be willing to sell quickly for a reasonable offer.”
“Are we sure Feirhair is the best option?” Cynthia asked.
Someone across the table exhaled noisily, but Cynthia was not about to let some guy’s sinus issues deter her.
“The quality and reputation of their motels are not up to the standard of what Kumar Construction has come to represent in Kelowna,” she added.
Her father’s lifelong legacy consisted mainly of modern architecture, sleek lines, and polished metal design.
Cynthia, who had also handled the interior design and décor of many of these buildings, liked to think she’d left her stamp on the Kumar legacy, too.
And, when Kumar Construction was hers, she’d brand the organization properly so it could exist beyond name recognition and her father’s familiar face.
The finance director, Keer—or as Cynthia privately referred to him, Klepto Keer for his tendency to hoard donuts whenever someone brought in a box—cleared his throat.
“Vancouver is a highly competitive, oversaturated, and expensive market,” he said.
His condescending voice contained none of the sugary sweetness of the Timbits she was certain he’d devoured earlier.
“A motel chain is a sensible option. Risk averse.”
With little discretion, Klepto shook his head at the man sitting next to him. Leering Larry, who headed sales, rolled his eyes back. Here we go again , they seemed to be telepathically admonishing. This is above her head.
Thankfully, Cynthia was a master of resisting the burn of frustration gathering behind her tear ducts. She had conditioned herself against unnecessary displays of emotion years ago, knowing that, in her father’s eyes—and everyone else’s in here—they were a sign of weakness.
In a room full of men, there was never any space for a crying female.
Cynthia unclenched her teeth. “I know what the Vancouver market is like,” she replied to Klepto Keer. As does everyone who works in business in this country, you asshole. “Is the plan to tear down existing motels and rebuild?”
Her father shifted in his chair and glanced around the table, exchanging long looks with the other men, as they often did when Cynthia’s point of view went against the grain. Which was most of the time.
Their reaction always made her feel like a child trying to play grown-up at the adult table, where everyone had previously agreed to tolerate her until a nanny whisked her off at bedtime.
The squeak of Rich’s tall, sturdy frame shifting restlessly in his leather chair made Cynthia want to claw her sharp, manicured nails into the mahogany conference table.
She’d drag them downward, splinter the wood, and carve her fucking name in its smooth surface if she had to.
“Well, we’ll have to see…” her father finally answered, which a few of his decaying stooges took as permission to bestow their patronizing smiles on her.
Not for the first time, Cynthia asked herself the eternal question: How many men does it take to get things done? Too many, in her opinion. When she took over, she’d…
She was getting ahead of herself again. Thinking about future plans for Kumar Construction was dangerous territory, especially since Cynthia was fairly certain that her reserved and careful father had not divulged any information regarding his retirement and succession plans with any of the members of this sausage fest. No one but she and her mother knew about his plans for Rohit, the Chosen One.
She was also completely certain that no one in this room would ever put her in the running for the next head of the company.
The men her father had chosen to sit around this table treated her with varying degrees of dismissiveness: she was too opinionated, too radical, too headstrong.
Too female.
Regardless of the fact that her father had quietly earmarked a certain someone to take over his company, Cynthia knew there was still time.
There was no way her meticulous and hardworking father would drop what he had spent his lifetime building in a near-stranger’s lap and go buy a yacht to sail around the world or whatever he planned to do with his retirement.
She had time to change his mind, to show up the Chosen One and prove that Kumar Construction belonged to her. After all, Cynthia had devoted years to doing exactly that and she wasn’t defeated enough to think that, at thirty years old, she’d failed to seal the deal and should throw in the towel.
Cynthia ignored the tightness in her throat as she gestured at the files she’d brought in, stacked neatly on the table.
Her arguments were right in front of her, thoroughly researched and proofread twice the night before.
Although she always tended to go about her work with this level of commitment, she felt it was especially important that she present herself in this way at these infernal meetings.
For the only woman in the room, overprepared never seemed quite prepared enough, even though the most anyone else brought with them was little more than a pen with paper and, for one gentleman in particular, a pocket full of stolen donuts.
Cynthia had no choice but to go above and beyond all the fucking time.
The city of Kelowna and its surrounding areas might be familiar with Kumar Construction’s legacy, but she worked overtime to make sure they knew about her, too.
She was not planning on riding anyone’s coattails to get what she wanted.
Sure, her father’s connections had opened doors, but she had singled herself out as a reputable brand consultant and interior designer.
More and more, her portfolio contained clients outside her father’s illustrious network, business owners who sought her expertise because of a desire to work with the best to help build their livelihoods.
But the men in this room didn’t see that. Here, she was Rich’s too-nosy, too-young daughter. She’d be thirty-one years old next January but in her father’s eyes, she knew what he saw: a girl who should be more concerned with family planning.
Her ovaries puffed a huff in disgust. No thanks. At least her dad’s yes men had stopped asking her when she was finally going to give her father grandchildren; curtailing that insipid form of small talk had felt like a victory for all womankind.
Cynthia’s nails skimmed their way to the opening of the folder at the top of her pile, but before she could make her case for business expansion into Vancouver, the door swung open and everyone’s heads swiveled at the interruption. Most of the men grinned and a few actually clapped.
Nausea, check.
The Chosen One had entered the room.