The Billionaire’s Redemption (The Wilder Brothers #1)

Chapter 1

NATALIE

My heels click briskly across the lobby’s marble floor, echoing between glass panels and chrome fixtures.

July’s morning light bleeds through towering windows, catching the sharp edges of minimalist decor, while the air conditioning battles against New York’s oppressive summer heat.

Suits mill about, murmuring into phones with the urgency only a Monday morning in Manhattan can inspire.

I don’t look at them. I just keep moving, contempt burning in my chest like acid.

Three whole years working at Thalvyn Maritime without so much as a sick leave, and when I finally go on vacation, Braxton Thompson decides to sell the fucking place.

I’m supposed to be in Hawaii right now, my body coated in sunscreen, my red hair wet from the pool, drunk and blissfully happy under the Pacific sun.

But no.

I barely even touched a drink before my assistant Layla called me in a panic-stricken state, her voice cracking through the phone like breaking glass .

Selling the company?

To whom?

Why?

The elevator dings, and I step inside just as a familiar voice calls out behind me.

“Natalie!”

I look over my shoulder to see a blonde woman hurrying towards me, her designer heels clicking frantically against the polished floor.

The edges of her short hair barely brush against her shoulder as she follows me into the elevator, her chestnut brown eyes filled with distress.

“What are you doing back here? I thought you went on vacation this week.”

“I landed in Hawaii yesterday,” I say darkly, pushing the button to the fifteenth floor. “Had to get the first flight out of paradise because Layla called me. They’re selling the company?!”

“Not selling.” Iris’s reply is grim, her usually perfect composure cracking at the edges. “It’s already sold. Another company acquired us.”

“Who is it?”

Iris shrugs, looking equally frustrated as she adjusts her silk blouse.

“Aside from the board of directors, nobody else has been informed. I’m the head of marketing, and even I don’t know.

I just received an email last night to put a hold on all the projects.

Everything has to be re-approved by the new CEO. Were you called back?”

I shake my head as the elevator glides upward, the city sprawling below us through the glass walls.

“No, I didn’t want to come back and find out there was a new head of human resources.

And if there’s been an acquisition, depending on who the new CEO is, a lot of people will be losing their jobs. I need to be here.”

Iris lets out a heavy sigh, her breath fogging the polished steel doors momentarily.

“You take your job very seriously. I doubt you would have been fired, but you’re right.

The rumor mill has been working around the clock since Friday.

Seems that Thompson prepared a list of all the incompetent employees and handed it over to the new owner. ”

“His name better have been on the top of that list,” I grumble, feeling the familiar surge of irritation that Braxton Thompson always inspired.

“The man couldn’t lift a stapler without calling one of his five assistants.

He was barely running the company as it was.

The only thing he was good at was ogling everything in a skirt. ”

I catch Iris smoothing down the creases in her pants at my words, her smile hardening. “He once told me I should wear a skirt because pants were too manly.”

I scoff, the sound sharp in the confined space. “He tried to create a company policy banning pants for the female staff and insisting on skirts as formal wear—and even those had to be less than a certain length. The man was a walking, talking lawsuit waiting to happen.”

A sigh escapes me as I exchange a look with her, both of us sharing the weight of too many uncomfortable encounters. “Maybe the new CEO will be less focused on why our skirts are past our knees and more on the quality of work we provide.”

“We can only hope.” Iris casts her gaze heavenward as the elevator chimes.

I get off on the fifteenth floor and head to my office, the familiar scent of coffee and copy machine toner greeting me like an old friend.

When I enter, I see Layla at her desk in the waiting room, talking in a hushed whisper with two other men from my department.

Her posture screams gossip, and I’m not in the mood.

“Henry, George, back to your seats.”

Both of them look at me with wide eyes, and George splutters, “Miss Thorne! You’re back?”

“Your skills of deduction remain unparalleled, George.” My tone is dry as desert sand. “To your seat. This isn’t the time for gossip around the water cooler.”

“But we’re not around the—” Henry begins, but one look from me has him scurrying back, followed by his companion like mice fleeing a cat.

“Well?” I continue into my office as Layla trails behind me, her anxiety practically radiating off her in waves.

Her long dark hair is braided perfectly, not a strand out of place, her glasses more for show than necessity.

Layla looks prim and proper, and from the relief washing over her face, she’s grateful to see me.

“The memo was sent out just before closing time yesterday,” she tells me nervously, wringing her hands. “Mr. Thompson had already left the building by then. All the department heads went to his office, but he wasn’t there. Can he do that? Is this legal?”

When she pauses to catch her breath, I glance at her, noting the dark circles under her eyes. “Is what legal?”

“You know, selling the company without telling anybody?”

My lips twist into a grimace. “It was his company, Layla. And from what I’ve managed to gather, the appropriate people were informed.

Braxton probably knew we’d have questions, so the coward scuttled out of here before sending out the company memo.

Not the most ethical thing, but you can’t sue the man over it. ”

Layla swallows hard, and I give her a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. By the end of the day, we’ll know more about where we all stand.

In the meantime, I want you to grab George, sit down with him, and compile the list of hires over the past three years.

Organize them by their quarterly feedback—each department, Layla.

Also, earmark the ones who were personally suggested by Mr. Thompson.

And get me the damn list that Mr. Thompson sent to the new CEO.

God knows who he’s thrown on the chopping block. ”

My assistant flinches at my tone. “What are—why are we doing this?”

I lean back in my seat, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling over me like a heavy blanket. “The new CEO wants these. Trust me. Just get them ready.”

Layla doesn’t look very happy, but she leaves the room while I rub my hands over my face. Removing the pin from my hair, I let my long red hair tumble down my shoulders and over my back, massaging my scalp in an attempt to ward off the impending headache building behind my temples.

It was bad enough getting that call from Layla yesterday, her voice shrill with panic cutting through the peaceful sound of Hawaiian waves.

By the time I landed back in New York around three in the morning today, the city’s stale air hitting me like a wall, I already had an email from someone called Clarice relaying the new CEO’s instructions in crisp, professional language. I already know what this means.

People will be getting fired.

I glance at the wall clock and sigh, tapping my fingers against my desk in a rhythm that matches my racing heartbeat.

Now begins the waiting game.

It’s well into the afternoon when I receive the summons, the heat making the office feel stifling despite the air conditioning working overtime. I’m about to have lunch at my desk when Layla barges into my office, white as a sheet and looking like she’s seen a ghost.

“He’s here. He’s in his office, and he wants to see you.”

I close my eyes briefly before getting to my feet, abandoning my sad tuna sandwich, which suddenly looks even less appealing.

I tried to dig into who the new CEO was, spending the morning making calls and pulling every string I could think of. I even tried calling in a few favors, but the whole matter has been kept hush-hush. Even the board of directors has kept their mouths sealed tighter than Fort Knox.

Picking up the files I had compiled this morning, I begin the walk of doom to the top floor.

The silence in the halls is filled with dread and fear, thick as the summer air outside.

Everybody’s waiting to get the ax, their conversations dying as I pass.

They have good reason to be worried. Usually when companies are acquired, the new management starts downsizing faster than you can say “restructuring.” I doubt the new CEO has already decided who to fire, though.

He’s either calling me to find out the weak links in the company or to give me the sack.

Either way, I’m prepared. My resume is currently lying on the desks of some of the companies that have tried to headhunt me in the past couple of years.

I don’t have any plans to be taken by surprise.

I’ve been at Thalvyn for three years now, doing everything I can to halt the decline of what was once one of New York’s most prestigious luxury yacht manufacturers.

I like the company, and I’m damn good at my job.

I don’t want to leave. However, that doesn’t mean I’m going to close my eyes and stick my head in the sand.

I’ve learned to be practical in life. Getting attached is a sure-fire way of getting your heart broken.

And I have far too much experience in getting my heart broken.