Chapter 6 #2
Well, fuck him. Plausible deniability is a real bitch. So is secret competence. Maybe mine didn’t have to be a secret anymore.
I glared over my tequila and opened my mouth.
“Ronan.” Dad’s voice was full of warning.
Maybe not.
“Do you have any idea what Ivy Ink has been writing about us?” Owen went on.
I rolled my eyes. “Do you know you have an unhealthy obsession with that gossip columnist? You need to find some new reading material. May I suggest some Seneca? Or Marcus Aurelius? A bit of Stoicism would do you good.”
“I will when she stops using this family for her own personal target practice,” he retorted. “This week, she called us—Liam, what was it?”
“‘Financial dilettantes playing dress-up in their father’s company,’” Liam supplied, then shrugged when I laughed. We’d always enjoyed fanning Owen’s temper together. “Also, ‘morally bankrupt,’ ‘ethically challenged,’ and ‘a dynasty of dysfunction.’”
“The last one has some nice alliteration,” I said. “And not totally inaccurate.”
“Fuck!” Owen exploded.
Shea snorted. At least she had a sense of humor.
“Boys, please.” Liza sounded tired, but she’d always sounded that way, even when we were growing up. “Ronan, this is serious. Public perception has a legitimate effect on company valuation. Stockholders are not happy.”
That was it. “Look, I realize I’ve only been nominated to the Interim CEO, but I don’t need to be corporate-splained stock valuations.
I get our family’s problems—more than any of you think.
While you were all reenacting Days of Our Lives this weekend, I was doing my favorite tap dancing routine called ‘Ronan takes out the trash.’”
“Ronan!” Dad barked.
I rolled my eyes. Come on, I hadn’t given any details.
“You see?” Owen waved a wild hand. “Brendan’s out of his mind nominating him. How can we trust the company to Ronan when he thinks everything’s a fucking joke?”
I leaned back in my chair, studying my brother. Owen had wanted this job since we were kids, practically killing himself trying and failing to outshine Brendan in every way. That only made the prospect of taking a role I’d never personally wanted that much more attractive.
“Tell me, brother.” I crossed my ankle over my knee and admired the way the flickering firelight lit up the amber-colored liquid in my glass. “How did we get involved with the Huntingtons again? Something about your failed real estate venture comes to mind…”
“Fuck you. That has nothing to do with it. This is because Brendan and his little girlfriend sold out—”
“Or maybe it’s because, per usual, you’re too much of an impulse buyer to make a good deal,” I added. “Hard to make good decisions when you’re too mired in PTSD to see straight.”
A hush settled over the room.
Okay, fine. It was below the belt. Owen’s disorder hadn’t reared its ugly head in years, not since he went through a program following his second tour. Tying it to a poor business decision was unfair.
But the Black brothers had never been taught to fight fair. Not even in our own backyard.
I turned to my father and Liza, who were both watching the exchange with keen interest. There was maybe even a shade of respect brewing in Dad’s ruthless expression.
“Brendan nominated me because he knows that I’ve been successfully and profitably managing the tech division of Blackguard for years, and that, unlike you, I’ve been solving this family’s problems for years, not making them.
You think I’m a loose cannon, but in reality, I’m the safest choice.
” I took out a cigarette, uncaring of the fact that we were inside.
“Ronan, put that out.” Liza snatched the cigarette away before I even lit it up. “You’ve made your point, and your father just got off oxygen.”
“Give it back,” Dad ordered. “If the boy wants a cigarette, let him have it. He’s earned it.”
Coming from my father, that was practically a declaration of love.
“But Owen’s also right,” he continued, turning those sharp eyes on me. “You’re not a picture of stability. Never have been. And that’s going to be a problem for the board,”
Liza’s warning rang through my mind. They want someone who’s going to settle down, get married, have kids. Present a respectable image.
In other words, I couldn’t keep playing the jester role I’d borne for years. I needed to flip the fucking script.
That is, if I even wanted to be CEO at all.
Maybe I just wanted to prove all these assholes wrong.
I tucked the cigarette back into the pack and sat forward. “Well, you’ll be happy to know I did more than party in Vegas this time around. I got married.”
The silence was deafening as every person in the room froze.
Owen and Shea were statues by the window. Liam and Liza stared like I’d grown a second head. Dad’s eyes narrowed. Mac, who was silently shaking his head in the doorway, was for once the first to break and move.
“Uh, Rone?” Liam finally ventured. “Did you just say you got married?”
“Oh, yeah. Rings, vows, Elvis impersonator.” I snapped my fingers at each item off the list. “The whole Vegas experience.”
“It’s another joke, right?” Owen shoved his hand through his hair, causing it to stand up in black spikes. “He’s fucking with us, or else it’s a play for—”
“A play for what? Your approval?” I snorted.
“Please, brother. I’d never lower myself to that.
And before you say anything, it’s not a play for the board either.
If I wanted to stage something for public consumption, I would have done the big fancy wedding like Brendan and Simone couldn’t even manage.
As it happens, I walked down the aisle before I found out about Brendan.
It was an act of love straight from my romantic, drunken heart. ”
I looked at Liza at the end so she would understand what I was trying to say—that, yes, I’d been married when she called.
No one else seemed to know what to say.
“So… who is she?” Shea finally piped up. “We didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”
That’s because I wasn’t, I thought but decided to keep that detail to myself.
It certainly wouldn’t be the first secret about my social life I’d kept from these people.
“We have a connection. It felt like the right thing to do. And unlike some people in this room, my instincts rarely guide me wrong.” I took pleasure in the color that returned to Owen’s face when I made my last statement, forcing him to turn back to the window again to calm himself.
Was I lying through my teeth?
Sort of. Not really.
“Her name’s Delaney Fisher,” I said when it became clear that everyone was waiting for more. “She’s from Seattle. She runs a shop called Meráki Fashion. She’s smart. Nice. Hot as fuck, obviously.”
It was basically all that I could remember—or at least, it was all I could tell them that was remotely appropriate.
Somehow, I didn’t think my family members would appreciate the fact that Laney had the nicest ass on either side of the Rockies or the way she mewled like a kitten when I kissed her with full tongue.
Liam was already on his phone, pulling up information. Out of everyone in the room, he was the most likely to know I was full of shit, and, like any good lawyer, he was going to check every detail of my story until I admitted it.
“Meráki Fashion,” he read aloud. “Small ethical brand founded by Antonia Karolides in 2002 until her death last year. Current creative director, Delaney Fisher. Gross revenue last year was around a hundred and twenty grand. Declining value due to increased competition from—”
“We get it,” I interrupted, slightly annoyed that I hadn’t already asked my own assistant to pull up this information. “She’s not a billionaire. So what?”
“So nothing.” Dad was still studying me with those calculating eyes. “As long as she doesn’t have a record, the real question is this: is she presentable?”
Presentable. Like a show dog.
“Holy shit, he wasn’t lying. She is gorgeous.” Shea was scrolling on her phone, too.
“Shea, don’t curse,” Violeta chided in her thick Spanish accent before downing half her martini. “It’s not ladylike.”
“Mother, please. We’re busy.” Shea flipped her phone around to show a profile picture of Laney from the shop's website.
She was up to her ears (literally) in a thick cable-knit sweater, her dark hair piled on top of her head, her face framed by a pair of gold hoops that made her green eyes sing through the screen.
Damn. My wife really was a stunner.
“What can I say?” I relaxed back into my seat. “I have good taste. She’s also honest, funny, and intelligent. Everything Owen’s favorite columnist says we’re not. We might have eloped, but she’ll be an asset.”
God. I sounded just like these fuckers. Frankly, it made my stomach turn. Or maybe I hadn’t eaten enough today.
Dad took Shea’s phone and examined the picture for a long time before handing it back and turning to Liam. “Background check?”
“Already sent to Carver,” he replied.
I frowned. The family’s personal P.I. was ruthless. And also an asshole. “That’s not necessary. I vouch for her. That’s all you need to know.”
“Everyone’s got skeletons, Ronan,” Dad replied. “It’s just a question of what they are and how we deal with them. But in the meantime, good work.”
“What?” Owen’s face was purple now. “Dad, you can’t be serious. He met her five fucking minutes ago—”
“No, I married her five fucking minutes ago,” I interrupted as I took out a cigarette again and started flipping it around my fingers. “If you’re going to be irate, be accurate.”
“Owen, shut up,” Dad snapped. “You complained about stability? Well, now Ronan’s actually married to a real person with a real business.
Not some socialite looking for a payout.
Not some actress trying to break into our world.
A real woman—and might I add, he’s the only one of you that much closer to giving me the next generation to solidify my legacy. ”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Owen wasn’t done exploding. “He’s so full of shit! You can’t seriously be considering—”
“I’m not considering!” Dad's growl was nearing a roar now. “I’ve decided, and you’ll fucking deal with it. Ronan will be appointed interim CEO, and every person in this room will support that appointment. After that, we’ll tackle the Huntington problem.”
There wasn’t even a question of our compliance. Not a hint of uncertainty. One by one, every person in the room nodded their heads.
Dad turned back to me, leaning heavily on his cane. “Get your wife to Boston. You might have married her quietly, but the reveal needs to be public. Press. Photos. The whole dog and pony show.”
For which she would need to be presentable.
More importantly, she needed to be made aware that we were going to remain married.
Fuck.
“She has a life in Seattle,” I tried. “A business. Responsibilities. We’ll be living apart.”
“Living apart works.” Something in my father’s tone made my skin crawl. He glanced at Violeta, then back at me. A knowing look. Man to man. “Behind closed doors is your own business, but she needs to show up when it’s important. The point is the optics. Everything else is up to you.”
His meaning was clear: go ahead and fuck around. Just keep it quiet. Like he did.
There was a joke in there about being a chip off the old block, but for once, I wasn’t in a joking mood. At this point, I was ninety-nine percent sure my stomachache had nothing to do with a lack of breakfast and more to do with the idea of screwing with Laney Fisher. I just didn’t understand it.
Unfortunately, there was only one thing to say.
“I’ll talk to her,” I muttered. “See what I can arrange. After the board meeting, I’ll probably need to spend some time in Seattle. Get to know her family better, and whatnot. Marriage is about compromise, right, Dad?”
On his other side, Violeta snorted but withered under my father’s death stare.
And that, in a nutshell, was what it meant to be married to Niall Black.
“Do what you have to do,” he said. “And Ronan?”
It was everything I could do to meet his eye. Not look away. Perform the confidence demanded of me in this new position.
“It does matter.”
And that, as they say, was that.
The meeting ended, but as my family left the room for dinner, I stayed behind long enough to dial my assistant.
“Mr. Black,” Claire answered on the first ring. “How can I help, sir?”
“Have the jet ready after tomorrow’s staff meeting. I need to go to Seattle.”
“Of course. For how long?” Her voice, always professional, bore no trace of surprise. Nor would it, after everything I’d put her through. When you’ve been woken at three a.m. with requests for Twizzlers, wire cutters, and a heli-rescue from a yacht in the Indian Ocean, nothing fazes you.
“I don’t know yet. But I need accommodations. A hotel, somewhere in Ballard, wherever the fuck that is. And a car.”
“Done. Will anyone else be accompanying you?”
I thought about that for a moment. Ideally, I’d be doing this on my own. But due to the nature of my business, I rarely traveled without security. Now that I was about to become the public face of the company, my risk was going to multiply exponentially.
“Get Mac a place next to mine.”
“Of course, sir. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Find out everything you can about Meráki Fashion, and do a background check on Delaney Fisher.” My father would be doing the same thing, but I needed my own information from my own people.
Rule number one to being a Black: trust no one. Not even each other.
“Of course, sir. I’ll have those ready for you tomorrow.”
I hung up before she could ask more questions. Then I scrolled to Laney’s contact and pulled up her location.
Was it fucked up that I’d turned on location services for a person I never intended to see again?
Probably?
Did my moral compass give a shit?
Only a little. But only because it was Laney. My Mrs. Black. Only she doesn’t know that name has not—will not—be wiped away by an annulment.
She never seemed to go anywhere. For the last two days, I’d watched her little dot exist within a five-block radius, spending most of its time at her shop with occasional excursions to the grocery store and a yoga studio called The Om Tree down the street.
Laney Fisher lived a quiet, predictable life.
And I was about to blow it all to smithereens.