Chapter 13
OSCAR
"You're looking thin, Oscar. Are you eating enough?" My mother's concerned face fills half the screen, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she leans closer to the camera.
"I'm eating fine, Mom," I assure her, adjusting my own screen so they can see me better. "Thank you, but you worry too much.”
My father's face appears next to my mother's as he squeezes into frame. "What your mother means is that you're working too hard. When are you coming to visit? The guest room's been ready for weeks."
The familiar guilt tugs at me. It's been over two months since I've seen them, despite the fact that they only live an hour outside of Seattle in the house I bought them five years ago.
A modest but comfortable place that my father had initially resisted — "We don't need charity from our son" — until I convinced him it wasn't charity but an investment in my peace of mind.
"Soon," I promise, meaning it this time. "Things are just hectic with the new acquisition. Once everything settles down, I'll take a weekend off."
"The organic food company?" my father asks, his interest piqued. He's always followed my business ventures closely, proud in a way he rarely verbalizes but I can always see in his eyes.
"Rooted Pantry, yes," I confirm, glancing at the unread emails filling up my inbox. "It's a national line of organic frozen foods."
"And how's that going?" my mother asks. "Are the employees adjusting to having a new boss?"
"It's… a process," I say carefully. "Actually, you might be interested to know I'm working with Alice Mackie again. She's the COO."
My mother gasps, her hand flying to her heart. "Alice? Your Alice from college? Oh, that's wonderful!"
"She's not my Alice, Mom," I correct her quickly, though something inside me wishes otherwise. "But yes, the same Alice."
"How is she?" my father asks, grinning broadly. "Still stubborn as a mule and twice as smart?"
I have to smile at his accurate description. "Some things never change."
My parents had adored Alice from the moment I brought her home freshman year of college. She was my lab partner first, then my friend, and eventually my best friend, the person I spent most of my time with.
"You need to bring her for dinner!" my mother exclaims. "I always thought you two would end up together, you know. The way you looked at that girl…"
"Mom," I interject, feeling the heat rise to my face. "It's not like that. We're just colleagues now. It’s… complicated."
My father's expression softens, seeing through my deflection as he always does. "Complicated how?"
I hesitate, not wanting to disappoint them with the reality that Alice can barely stand to be in the same room as me. That I destroyed whatever chance we might have had all those years ago.
"Just the usual workplace dynamics," I say evasively. "Anyway, I should go. It was good to talk to you."
"Don't work too hard," my mother admonishes. "And call more often. We miss you."
"Miss you too," I say, and I mean it. Despite the success, the money, the empire I've built, family has always been my center of gravity. "Love you both. I'll come visit soon, I promise."
After ending the call, I stare at my reflection in the darkened screen.
My parents have always seen the best in me — the idealistic kid who wanted to make a difference, not just a fortune.
Sometimes I wonder if that version of me still exists somewhere beneath the billionaire exterior I've cultivated.
A knock on my door interrupts my thoughts.
"Come in," I call, straightening my tie and pushing aside the moment of vulnerability.
My office assistant, Naomi, pokes her head in. "Halston and Jack are here. They don't have an appointment, but they're insisting on seeing you."
I frown. Board members showing up unannounced is never a good sign. "Send them in."
Moments later, Halston and Jack stride into my office with the confident air of men accustomed to getting their way.
"Oscar," Halston booms, extending his hand. "Good to see you."
I stand to shake his hand, then Jack's. "What brings you two here without warning? Is there an issue I should know about?"
"No issue," Jack says smoothly. "Just thought we'd see if you were free for lunch. There are some ideas we want to run by you."
I glance at my watch. It's just past noon, and my afternoon isn't packed. Still, something about their casual drop-in feels calculated. "What kind of ideas?"
"The kind best discussed over a good meal," Halston says, clapping me on the shoulder. "Come on, we have a reservation at Omara in twenty minutes."
Omara is one of the most expensive restaurants in the city. Whatever they want to discuss, they're buttering me up for it.
"Let me grab my jacket," I say, closing my laptop. As much as I'd like to refuse, curiosity gets the better of me.
The restaurant is dimly lit and hushed, the kind of place where the waitstaff materialize exactly when needed and vanish just as quickly. We're seated at a corner table, away from other diners. Perfect for a private conversation.
After ordering — an eighty-dollar steak for Halston, sea bass for Jack, and the pasta special for me — Halston leans back in his chair, swirling his bourbon.
"So, Oscar, how's it going at Rooted Pantry? Any hiccups?"
I take a sip of water, considering my response. "It's proceeding according to plan. The team there is talented, committed."
"And the COO… Alice, is it?" Jack asks. "Is she being cooperative?"
I hesitate, not liking that A) he isn’t sure about Alice’s name despite meeting her the other day, and B) the tone of his voice suggests distaste.
"Alice has been a life saver," I say carefully. "She’s one of the best.”
Halston and Jack exchange a glance that immediately puts me on edge.
"That's actually what we wanted to discuss," Jack says, leaning forward. "We've been reviewing the organizational structure at Rooted Pantry, and we see some significant… inefficiencies."
"What kind of inefficiencies?" I ask, though I already have a sinking feeling about where this is headed.
The appetizers arrive — oysters for the table — creating a momentary pause in the conversation. Once the server retreats, Halston picks up where Jack left off.
"Potential redundancies, mainly," he says, squeezing lemon over an oyster. "The in-house team is bloated, especially considering the resources we already have at our disposal through the other companies."
My jaw tightens, but I keep my expression neutral. "Go on."
Jack pulls out a tablet and slides it across the table to me.
"We've drawn up a proposal. In essence, we could cut about half of the current Rooted Pantry team — primarily in marketing, product development, and quality assurance — and outsource those functions to contractors or absorb them into existing teams at your other companies. "
I scan the document, my appetite vanishing. The proposed cuts would eviscerate Alice's carefully built team. People she's hand-selected, trained, mentored. People whose names and stories I've heard her share in meetings, whose work she's praised.
"The numbers are compelling," Jack continues, mistaking my silence for interest. "We project an annual savings of approximately a million in the first year, rising next year as we streamline the work."
I continue scrolling through the proposal, my mind racing. From a purely financial standpoint, it makes perfect sense. The kind of move I've made countless times before in other acquisitions. The kind of move that's helped build my empire.
The kind of move that would confirm every worst fear Alice has about me.
I think of my parents' excitement at hearing Alice's name. How disappointed they would be to learn that not only does their son's college best friend not like him anymore, but that he's considering gutting the company she's built.
"What's the timeline you're proposing?" I ask, my voice carefully even.
"We could begin the transition immediately," Halston says, clearly pleased that I haven't outright rejected the idea.
"Complete the restructuring within sixty days.
There might be some short-term disruption, but with the San Diego facility coming into play soon, it's the perfect time to realign the organization. "
The waiter arrives with our main courses, and I'm grateful for the interruption. It gives me a moment to compose my thoughts, to consider the implications of what they're suggesting.
I think of Alice's face at the board meeting when I backed her vision for the San Diego facility.
The surprise in her eyes, quickly followed by something that looked almost like hope.
The two of us, we used to stay up late talking about how businesses should be run ethically, how people should always come before profit margins. When did I stop believing that?
"The financial case is strong," I finally say, cutting into my pasta without really seeing it. "But I'm concerned about the impact on morale and institutional knowledge. Alice has built that team from the ground up."
"With all due respect," Jack says in a tone that conveys very little respect, "we didn't acquire Rooted Pantry for its 'morale’.”
"Jack's right," Halston adds. "Look, I understand the desire to keep the peace, especially with someone as… passionate as Ms. Mackie. But this is business, Oscar. The kind of business you excel at."
There's a subtle challenge in his voice, as if he's questioning whether I've gone soft. And maybe I have, where Alice is concerned. But maybe that's not entirely a bad thing.
"I want to review the proposal more thoroughly," I say, buying time. "Consider all the angles."
Halston's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Of course. Take your time. But the sooner we implement these changes, the sooner we start realizing those savings."
"And the sooner we demonstrate to the other board members that this acquisition will yield the returns we promised," Jack adds pointedly.
The rest of lunch passes in a blur of polite conversation about market trends and the restaurant's wine list. By the time we're saying our goodbyes outside Omara, I've made my decision — or rather, my non-decision. I won't approve the cuts, but I won't reject them either. Not yet.
Back in my office, I sit with the proposal open on my laptop, staring at the list of positions slated for elimination. Fifteen people. Fifteen lives that would be upended by a decision I could make with a single email.
A year ago, I wouldn't have hesitated. Hell, six months ago, I would have already sent the approval and started planning the restructuring announcements. Efficiency. Streamlining. Maximizing shareholder value. These have been the guiding principles of my career.
But now, all I can think about is Alice's face when she learns that nearly half her team is being let go. The betrayal in her eyes. The confirmation of everything she's believed about me since the day I walked away from our startup.
From her.
I close the laptop and move to the window, watching the afternoon sun glint off the buildings below. The city continues its bustling pace, oblivious to my dilemma.
Would my parents still look at me with such pride if they knew the kind of decisions I make daily? Would they recognize the man their son has become?
Will Alice ever see me as anything other than the person who abandoned her and our shared dream?
My phone rings, and Naomi's voice comes through the intercom. "Oscar, Rooted Pantry is on line one. They need your approval on the manufacturing equipment order for San Diego."
I take a deep breath and pick up the phone. "This is Oscar."
"Mr. Glynn," a voice says — not Alice's. "This is Devon from Procurement. We need your signature on the equipment purchase for San Diego before the end of day."
"I'll be there in thirty minutes," I say, making a snap decision. "I'll sign it in person."
As I gather my things, I glance once more at the closed laptop containing Halston and Jack's proposal. I know I should approve it. It makes financial sense. Many people would do it without blinking.
But I'm not sure that's who I want to be anymore. Not if it means betraying Alice all over again. Not if it means becoming someone my parents — and my younger self — wouldn't recognize.
For now, the proposal will wait. I need to see her, to remind myself of what's really at stake here. Not just numbers on a spreadsheet, but trust. Possibility. A second chance I'm not sure I deserve, but desperately want.
A second chance that will vanish the moment I sign off on those cuts.