Chapter 7 #2
Instead of sticking to the script, he went on a twenty-minute tangent about why luxury branding is a scam, complete with a slide he pulled up from some conspiracy subreddit about subliminal messaging, a pyramid scheme theory, and, I kid you not, lizard people running the market.
I wanted to die.
By the time I wrestled control back, the investor was already checking her watch, and Jackson was helping himself to the catered lunch like he hadn’t just cost us a multi-million-dollar deal.
So, yeah. Thatcher may love his nephew, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us should have to suffer. Especially after what I walked into last night.
“No offense, but I’m not a babysitter.”
Thatcher smiles. Not kindly.
He continues, voice sharp as a knife. “This is your proving ground, Rhodes. You guide him, you close the deal, and we talk partnership.”
The words burrow deep into my skin.
“You win. You rise. Jackson’s new to the game,” Thatcher continues, leaning back in his chair like the world bends to him. And most of the time, it does. If we’re being honest. “He needs someone to show him how it’s done.”
“Thatcher—”
“No arguments.”
I clamp my mouth shut. I know better than to push. Arguing with Thatcher is like throwing yourself against a brick wall—pointless, and guaranteed to hurt.
“Understood,” I say, but the words are ash on my tongue.
How the fuck did I get here? Jackson doesn’t respect the work because he’s never had to. Hand him a strategy, and he’ll take the scenic route straight into the mountain. Not up it.
And now I’m supposed to wrangle him while courting the biggest client of my career?
Fan-fucking-tastic.
He steeples his fingers. “There’s more.”
Oh, God!
“I want you to take Shelby Davidson to happy hour next week.”
The name alone makes a noise escape from the back of my throat that sounds suspiciously like a dying fax machine.
Shelby is what happens when too much privilege, too little self-awareness, and an Instagram algorithm collide. She’s sunshine captions and designer endorsements. The human version of a sponsored post.
Double fan-fucking-tastic.
The last time I interacted with Shelby was last year. I was sitting on a panel where she absolutely humiliated me.
I was the keynote at a convention. Market strategy in a shifting digital age.
I was prepared, and devastatingly charming. The usual.
Until Shelby—then an intern with some advertising company, had a front-row seat, and way too much audacity—took the Q&A session hostage and verbally ripped me to shreds.
“That’s a really nice way of saying you’re resistant to change,” she’d said, smiling like a shark in lip gloss.
She wasn’t wrong. Which, honestly, made it ten times worse.
There were more layers to that moment—nuance, trauma—but I’ve spent too much in therapy (and bourbon) compartmentalizing it to go back now.
The clip went viral.
I became the out-of-touch dinosaur.
She walked away a legend.
Cross Media aka Asher Cross scooped her up and crowned her their Creative Director and Asher’s right hand gal.
“She’s Cross’s liaison. Build rapport.”
It takes everything not to scream. How Shelby has risen to such a high place is beyond me. But, then again, if there’s one thing she excels at—aside from manufactured relatability and obnoxiously perfect hair, it’s getting people to buy into her bullshit.
And now I have to pretend I don’t completely despise her.
“Will do.”
“Jackson’s going too.”
I swallow down the protest. “With all due respect—”
“Make it happen.”
Right. So that’s it then?
“All good?” he asks, eyes daring me to defy him.
“Mhm,” I grit out.
“Great!” He snaps the portfolio shut like he’s won something. “I’m counting on you, Rhodes. You’re the man.”
Rage simmers inside me as I step out. This is more than a deal. It’s the fight of my life. If Jackson costs me partner—I won’t just put him in his place.
I’ll bury him there.
My office is a mix of dark wood, iron fixtures, a chess board in the corner—more war room than workspace. I make it three steps in before his shadow cuts across the doorway.
The devil himself has reappeared. Why can’t I fucking escape this guy today?
“Teamie,” Jackson says, grinning.
I say nothing.
He walks in, casually, and obnoxious, his gaze landing on a photo of Chloe on the table behind me.
He picks it up. Stares too long. His thumb brushes the glass.
“I’ll take this now,” he says. Like it was his to begin with.
My pulse spikes. I think I’ll go ahead and punch him now. Besides, Tammy isn’t here to stop me.
But before I can move, he’s gone. The door clicks shut. And I’m standing here, breath caught in my throat, staring at the empty space. Like a coward.
I don’t care about the picture. Not really. But he didn’t ask. He just took.
Like he did Chloe.
What’s next—my job?
“You win? You rise. You fail? You vanish.”
Pressure flares white-hot under my ribs, covering the hollow ache Chloe left behind.
I won’t let it stand.
Except, by the time I look up, I’ve already made the decision:
He can have the picture.
But he won’t take anything else.