Chapter 6 #2
I’m so pissed that there’s no way I can regulate the words coming out of my mouth.
I don’t even try. “Cut the goddamn crap,” I say to Granddad.
The cunning smile that’s still plastered on the wily old man’s face is making me want to cut a bitch.
“Clarence has no such concerns. You have the concerns. So why don’t you tell me exactly what your problem is. I need this on the record.”
The board members squirm in their ergonomic chairs, ties loosened and knuckles white around their Mont Blanc pens.
Gazes dart between laptops and watches—anywhere but at the Kensington bloodbath unfolding before them.
Thompson’s face has gone the color of printer paper; Martinez’s jaw clenches so hard I can practically hear enamel cracking.
Johnson is sweating through his Armani. It's a Thanksgiving dinner from hell, complete with verbal carving knives and emotional hand grenades.
I see Patel eyeing the emergency exit like it's salvation itself.
Fuck their discomfort. As I growled at Granddad when he stormed in, this carnage needs witnesses.
“Max,” Granddad says. “You’ve done splendid work with Kensington Pictures.
I couldn’t be happier with your performance.
Nailing down the latest Nolan project was chef’s kiss.
” He kisses his fingers for emphasis. “Billions in profit, every quarter dwarfing the quarter that came before it. Everybody’s buzzing about our streaming projects, our theatrical releases have been tearing up the box office and awards seasons.
You’ve been a steady and innovative hand on the till. ”
I raise an eyebrow. Another Granddad move, and I know them all.
He’s buttering me up before going in for the kill.
He knows how to soften the shiv going straight into my back.
Not falling for it, even if every fucking word he just said is absolutely true.
I resist the temptation to just tell him to get on with it.
I don’t have all day and I feel a migraine forming behind my eyes.
I haven’t had one of those for years, yet today will be the day that my non-migraine streak comes to an end. I can feel it.
I motion with my hands that I want him to get the point and he nods.
"Max, listen to me. You have a revolving door of women and you can't keep living like this.
How many times have we had this conversation?
With the Dreamscape merger, Kensington Pictures won't just be your responsibility anymore—it'll be twice the empire, twice the pressure.
You need someone in your corner. Someone who sees you when the cameras aren't rolling.
I've watched enough successful men in this industry to know—the ones who last aren't standing alone. "
I narrow my eyes. “My personal life is nobody’s business.
What you said earlier is exactly the truth.
Kensington Pictures is one of the most successful film studios in the world right now.
I’ve been CEO for fiveyears, since I was 24 years old.
And since I’ve taken over, profits have exploded and our movies and streaming projects have done platinum numbers.
That’s all been me. My leadership. My hard work.
So I don’t need to be lectured about how I somehow need a stable love life and how that’s even relevant to my performance. ”
Granddad pushes himself up from his leather armchair, his arthritic knuckles whitening as he grips the mahogany armrests.
His eyes, still sharp despite the wrinkles framing them, lock onto mine with the same determination that built the Kensington empire.
"Max," he announces, his voice carrying the weight of decades of getting exactly what he wants, "I've made up my mind.
You need to be married." He pauses, the hint of a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"And I already have the woman for you all lined up. "
"MARRIED?" The word explodes from my mouth like a gunshot.
"What the actual FUCK?" My head whips around, scanning the room where every single pair of eyes now bores into me.
Seconds ago they were all staring at the floor, walls, ceiling—anywhere to escape the bloodbath between Granddad and me.
Now? They're practically salivating, relief washing over their faces like I've been sentenced to community service instead of execution.
As if marrying a complete stranger is somehow the merciful alternative to whatever horror show they'd been imagining Granddad would demand.
Granddad puts his hands up and shakes his head. “You won’t get me off this. I found the perfect-”
"No." My voice cuts through the room. "Absolutely not.
I won't be manipulated into this arrangement.
" I scan the boardroom, making eye contact with each member seated around the polished table.
"Everyone here has witnessed my objection.
Should I lose my position as CEO following the Dreamscape merger, you'll all be receiving subpoenas.
" I turn to Granddad and point at him, my finger steady despite my racing pulse. "This won't stand."
"Max," Granddad says, his voice deceptively gentle.
"Take a breath. I've found her—the perfect match.
Something in her eyes... there's a kindness there.
A goodness." He leans forward, the leather of his chair creaking.
"And you will marry her." The temperature in the room seems to drop.
"Unless you want the board to reconsider your position.
" His pupils contract to pinpoints, the same look he wore when negotiating the Turner acquisition.
Gone is the doting grandfather who sneaks candies to children at family gatherings.
In his place sits the man who once bankrupted three competing companies in a single quarter just to prove he could.
I feel my throat go dry as those bright green eyes—the same color as mine—fix on me with predatory focus.
I stare at him and he stares back, his eyes scorching me with the same merciless fire that incinerated every competitor in Kensington Pictures' path.
My jaw locks like a vise—I taste blood where I've bitten my cheek.
This ends one way: Granddad will use the morality clause in my contract to tear me up like a great white through a hemorrhaging seal, then unleash Clarence McLaughlin on the remains.
One goddamn phone call and the shareholders will be circling, howling for my execution by market close.
I could detonate back and sue the living fuck out of him—Jesus Christ, every cell in my body screams to—but that means total annihilation of the man who hoisted me onto shoulders that felt like mountains when I cracked that first home run.
The man who kept vigil through seventy-two hellish hours after Dad abandoned us, who guided my trembling fingers through fishing knots with hands granite-steady when I couldn't even hold a spoon.
The man who appeared like clockwork at every baseball diamond, hockey rink, auditorium and concert hall for eight devastated boys with eight shattered hearts.
His gnarled hands strangle the armrests, and I see the same calluses that once collected my blood and tears from playground concrete.
No. I will not crucify us both, will not rip this family into bloody pieces. Not even for this.
I slam my fist on the table and hang my head.
Goddamn it to hell. Marry some random woman I've never met or watch my CEO position burn to ashes.
Is Granddad bluffing? My gut says yes, but my brain screams no.
When that old bastard latches onto an idea—no matter how deranged or batshit insane—he'll ride it straight into the ground like a kamikaze pilot.
If he's decided I'm marrying this woman, then I'm fucking marrying her, period.
Testing his resolve would be like pulling the pin on a grenade to see if it's real.
The second I refuse, he'll torch everything I've built just to watch me scramble through the flames.
That's who he is. That's who he's always been.