CHAPTER EIGHT
BLAIRE
Twenty minutes. It took twenty minutes for Bennet Sullivan to bring me to tears.
I'm so much better than this — I've sat across from people three times as difficult and walked out without a scratch.
But on the heels of everything life related right now, I am apparently not as armored up as I thought I was.
When he called me a vulture, it landed exactly where he aimed it.
What I can't make sense of is the vitriol underneath it.
It doesn't feel like a man who resents being managed, which I've seen before and know how to handle.
It feels personal. Targeted in a way that has nothing to do with PR strategy or board directives or the Meridian deal.
Like I walked into that room already owing him something I don't know about.
I was grateful when Mark asked for a moment because the last thing I needed, on top of everything he implied in that conference room, was to start crying in front of a client.
I don't cry in front of clients.
I don't cry in front of anyone if I can help it. Ten years of marriage to Colt Monroe will teach you that crying in front of people gives them something to use.
I find a quiet stretch of corridor, set my back against the wall, and give myself exactly sixty seconds.
Then I put my face back together and wait.
When the conference room door opens, Bennet walks out with a blank expression and moves in the opposite direction without seeming to notice me. One of the board members follows close behind him. Mark, I think.
I give it a moment, then peek my head back into the room.
"Mrs. Monroe, please take your seat." Frank is already standing, gesturing toward my chair.
"Thank you."
He waits until I'm settled before he speaks. "As you can see, we need a solution and we haven't had much luck with previous firms. The stakes have also never been this high." He pauses. "I apologize for our CEO. He can be difficult to manage."
"So, I've heard. And no apologies necessary."
Before I can continue, Mark slips back in with a nod and a hand over his heart. An apology of his own.
I return the gesture as he finds his seat.
The room has settled into a calmer frequency now, the air cleared of whatever that was. I look around the table at the faces watching me and decide that whatever Bennet Sullivan's problem is with me, it lives outside this room. In here I have a job to do and people willing to let me do it.
That's enough to work with.
“Rosalie, can we leave this in your hands to manage with Bennet?” Frank asks.
“Yes, Frank. Absolutely. We will get a strategy in place today, and I’ll have Bennet send it to you all for review.”
The board members stand in unison.
"Please get him to understand the importance of his participation in this matter." Mark's expression carries a warning as he says it, directed squarely at Rosalie. She nods in understanding as they file out.
The room goes quiet. Just me and Rosalie.
"Alright," I say, and open my portfolio. "Let's talk about what actually fixing this looks like."
The door opens.
Bennet walks back in without his suit jacket and the sleeves of his black shirt rolled to the elbow.
I swallow hard because I was not prepared to be suddenly accosted by that level of sexual energy from the one person in this room who actively despises me.
The ink on his forearms catches my eye and I clear my throat.
He silently takes his seat at the head of the table, and I feel his gaze land on me the way. I look up and meet it.
Then I look back at my notes, because I am a professional and I have a job to do.
"The core issue," I say, addressing the two of them, "isn't any single incident in this file.
The core issue is a five year long pattern that has allowed the press to define who Bennet Sullivan is before you ever had the chance to define it yourself.
" I turn a page. "We're going to change that.
But it requires cooperation from everyone that was in this room, including you Mr. Sullivan. "
I don't look at him when I say it.
"So," I grab my pen to start taking notes. "Where would you like to start?"