Chapter 9 Shannen
Shannen
I’m pacing, but it’s not from nerves. Each click of my heels against the marble floors grounds me, centers me, and pulls me into the version of myself I’ve spent years perfecting.
Shannen Mitchell, CEO.
Here, I’m not the girl who held baggies of cocaine at eight, and I’m not the woman who lets a psychopath break into her apartment and touch her at night. In this office, with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, I’m in control.
The clock on the wall suddenly ticks louder than usual, counting down the minutes until the meeting.
My firm is thriving in a way that makes competitors grit their teeth, wondering what the hell we’ve got that they don’t.
The answer is me and a whole team of talented people I handpicked and trained.
But I want James Lawson on my client list like a lion wants blood.
Even if Phoenix’s warnings are still echoing in my head.
Betty just buzzed me a couple of minutes ago to let me know that James Lawson was in the lobby.
Seconds later, the handle turns, and he steps inside. He’s tailored within an inch of perfection, cuff links glinting like they’re worth more than everything I own.
From what I know, he didn’t build his empire himself. Daddy did, and Daddy’s daddy before that. But he wears that dynasty like a fucking crown.
“Mr. Lawson,” I say, stepping forward with my hand outstretched. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
“You too, Ms. Mitchell. I’ve been looking forward to this.” He takes my hand in his, holding it a fraction too long. “I was thrilled when you emailed me with your proposal. You’re the one everyone wants to work with.”
“I’m not sure I’d go that far.” I smooth the edge of my shirt as I step back toward the seating area. “But I’ve been lucky to work with some well-established businesses.”
“Humble,” he says, and there’s amusement in his voice. “I like that. You worked with one of my good friends last year, Samantha Morris,” he adds, following me with his eyes before moving to sit.
Samantha’s the aesthetic genius for the rich and famous. She had a waitlist three years deep, so she was able to drop cash on a rebrand the way other people buy shoes.
“Sam’s fantastic. I really enjoyed working with her.”
“She told me to say hello,” he says, lowering himself into the seat across from mine, his voice dropping just slightly. “And she also told me I wouldn’t be leaving here without a contract.”
“Well, you can tell her I said thanks for the endorsement.” I laugh, settling into my chair.
He smiles—polished, confident, the kind of smile that’s probably charmed its way through a thousand boardrooms and twice as many beds—and sits back like he owns the space. Which, to be fair, men like him usually do.
Just not here. Not in my space.
But I don’t miss the way his eyes wander down my neck and across my collarbone. They linger on the open button below my throat, then drag back up to meet my gaze.
I brush it off because James Lawson is known for having a different woman in his bed every night. The tabloids love him for it. Each to their own, and absolutely no judgment from me, but I won’t be one of them.
Not that Phoenix would allow it. Even the idea of me meeting with James had him simmering, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider it for a second just to see his face and fuck with the beautiful, unhinged asshole a little.
“So you read my proposal. Do you have any thoughts? Is there anything you’d like to tweak or adjust? Something that doesn’t quite fit your vision?”
James just grins, leaning back, with his thigh pressed against the leather. “Nope. It’s perfect.”
“Really?” I try not to look too shocked. “You don’t have any notes at all?”
“I mean, I have some minor things we can iron out once you get started. But overall, it’s exactly what I was looking for.”
The me on the inside is doing a happy dance—fist-pumping, screaming, possibly crying. The me on the outside just landed the contract of a lifetime and is keeping it together with every ounce of professionalism I have.
“So… I got the deal?”
“You did. But I don’t think I needed to come here and tell you that in person. I was sold after reading your pitch. This was more about meeting the woman behind the work.”
“Well, I’m glad you came. It’s always good to meet face-to-face before diving in.”
“So what do you say?” He stands, buttoning his jacket. “Early lunch? My treat. We can celebrate.”
I hesitate for a second because this wasn’t part of today’s plan.
Meetings? Yes.
Contracts? Absolutely.
Lunch with James Lawson? That’s… a curveball.
“Um… yeah, I guess I could probably do that. Let me just call through to Betty and check if I’m free.”
I already know I am, of course. My schedule’s wide open after this. But I pick up the phone anyway, if only to buy myself a second to breathe.
“Hey, Betty, do I have anything booked for the next hour?”
“No,” she says, and I can hear the chuckle in her voice. “You’re all clear.”
“Okay, thank you. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
I hang up and turn back to find James already standing and straightening his jacket.
“I have my car downstairs so we can take that.”
Don’t get into cars with strangers.
Don’t trust men with expensive smiles.
Don’t assume they’re taking you to lunch just because they like your pitch.
My parents never taught me that. In fact, they’d probably have pushed me into the car themselves if they thought they could score drugs or squeeze money out of the situation.
“Sure, just let me grab a couple of things, and I’ll meet you down there.”
“No problem. Take your time.” He sees himself out, and the second the door clicks shut, I’m already pulling out my phone to ping Lianna my location.
Because you know… you can never be too careful.
Stalkers and psychos seem to be everywhere these days, and the one I’ve already got is more than enough to last me a lifetime.
I grab my coat off the rack, touch up my red lipstick in the mirror by the door, and head downstairs.
James is waiting outside the building in a sleek black car. He spots me through the window, rolls it down, and calls out, “In you get, Ms. Mitchell.”
His driver steps out immediately, opening the door for me, and I slip inside.
“Are you happy going to Lawson’s?” James asks, casually resting his arm along the back seat. “I can’t recommend the food there enough.”
“That seems a little biased, but okay.” I laugh, and he just watches me.
“How old are you, Shannen?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“That’s young to have the success you do.”
“That’s what happens when you work your ass off from a young age instead of having it handed to you.”
He smirks. “Ouch.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to take a shot at you,” I say, not really sorry at all. “But I didn’t have anything passed down to me—no trust fund, no family business, no safety net to fall back on. So yeah, I’m pretty proud of what I’ve built.”
“As you should be.” He pauses before continuing, “And look, it’s not like I don’t know I’ve had it easier than most. I was born into a name that gets me almost anything I want. But it’s easy to lose perspective.”
There’s something almost genuine in his tone, and I find myself softening slightly. Not much, but enough that Phoenix would probably have my ass for it.
We small-talk our way through the next ten minutes—surface-level conversation about the city, the weather, and mutual acquaintances—until we reach Lawson’s Hotel.
James guides me inside with a hand hovering near the small of my back—not quite touching, but close enough that I’m aware of it.
We weave through the lobby toward the restaurant, and he leads me to a small booth tucked away in the corner.
We sit, and James orders a bottle of stupidly expensive champagne, which arrives almost immediately.
“So do I get to rebrand these too?” I ask, lifting a menu and flipping it over to examine the design. It’s elegant but so dated.
“You can if you’d like,” he says, pouring champagne into both our glasses. “Might as well make everything fit the theme you’re going for.”
I want to rip this place apart. Strip out the boring beige and gold bullshit and bleed red and black through every inch of it.
He wanted it to feel more exclusive and edgy, attracting a younger clientele and making it the place for young, thriving entrepreneurs.
The standard wage doesn’t cover these rooms, and if he wants to capture that demographic, everything needs to speak their language.
When the server comes over, I opt for a simple chicken Caesar salad, and when I see the price on the menu, my stomach turns slightly.
Thirty-eight dollars.
For fucking lettuce, chicken, and some Parmesan.
I have money now, and I treat myself to nice things. Beautiful hotel rooms when I need to travel. First-class flights. The most stunning penthouse apartment I could find, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. I’ve earned every luxury I allow myself.
But food should never come at this cost.
I was starved as a child—actually starved.
I'd search through empty cabinets, picking mold off bread with tiny shaking hands that were too small to understand why there was never enough to eat.
I'd lick expired peanut butter off a spoon because it was the only thing left, while my parents lay passed out in their own vomit just a room away, oblivious to the fact that their daughter was wasting away.
There are people out there who would kill for food. I used to cry for it every night, tears soaking my pillow as my stomach twisted in knots so tight I couldn't sleep.
Now I sit here in designer shoes, at a restaurant that charges more for a salad than some people make in a day, and I can’t decide whether I want to laugh or flip the fucking table.
“I’ll have to bring you back up here,” James says, smoothing a hand down his tie. “Maybe for dinner so you can get a real feel for the place.”