Page 7 of The CEO Enemy
“How did that go?”
How did that go? That mental image of his body pops into my head, and there’s a little twinge of “Ooh-la-la!” in my gut. I do a quick glance out the door to make sure none of the other employees are hanging around before I update her with a quick summary of this morning’s events, throwing in a detailed account of the, ahem, unexpected nudity I stumbled upon (while conveniently omitting any mention of the glory he witnessed). When I finish my story, Pauline looks upset.
“Oh, my God,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “What the hell were you thinking climbing balconies like Spider-Woman? You’re lucky you didn’t fall to your death.”
“Agree, not my finest moment. At least I got a nice eyeful.”
We continue our in-depth analysis of his “assets.” It’s possible that the term “perfect” slips into the conversation at some point.
“Damn.” She eventually sighs. “That’s a shame on the personality. The gorgeous ones usually are a pain in the ass.”
I take a sip of my French vanilla coffee. “Well, ain’t that the truth.”
By the time I get to my office, Norman is in. My and Norman’s assistant, Sarah, gets up to greet me with a big hello and warm hug before she returns to her phone call.
“Hey, Norm, look who’s back,” I say with a smile, entering his office. “Glorious day, isn’t it?”
Norman looks up at me, and instantly I know something is off. Any other day, he’d cheekily return my smile and ask me how I’m doing, how my travel went, and if Aunt Bernice couldn’t have managed without me. I’d chuckle, in light of the hilarious tale of her “broken leg” that turned out to be nothing more than a sprained ankle. She’s quite the dramatic character, that’s for sure.
This time, he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t even wear one of his signature silly ties. That’s a first. “Morning, Jess. Glad you’re back.”
“Everything okay?”
Norman is quiet for a moment before he stands from his desk. “Let’s walk.”
Worried, I take a long sip of my coffee as I follow him out of the office. Norman usually only asks to walk when there’s something on his mind. Even though I’m concerned, I try not to get anxious. We’re doing well. All properties are finally generating profits, and as far as I know, renovations have stayed within budget.
“What do you think about the renovations so far?” I ask, trying to keep things light. “The crew did an amazing job.”
“The hotel is beautiful, it’s inviting, and the lobby is flooded with sunlight. I never thought I would get to see it all restored.” His voice is tight, and I notice he’s trying to avoid eye contact.
“Norman, what’s wrong?” I ask. “I can tell something is up. You know you can tell me anything.”
“I know, Jess. I just know you’re not going to like what I have to say.”
My stomach churns, and I have to take another sip of cold coffee to steady my nerves. “Just come out and say it. Whatever it is, I can take it.”
Norman sighs and finally looks at me. “I sold my shares of the hotels.”
I nearly trip over my own feet.
Stopping in the dead center of the hall, I stare at Norman, unblinking. He couldn’t have possibly said what I think I heard.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” I say.
“I’m not.”
I stand there, unable to wrap my head around this information.
I can tell by the look on his face that he’s one hundred percent serious. Not that he’s one to make a joke in poor taste, but still. This cannot be happening. After everything we’ve been through together and all the hard work we’ve put into the place, I can’t believe that he up and sold his half of the properties, especially without telling me about it first.
Then it hits me: He didn’t have to.
In the early days, when Norman and I teamed up to start our partnership, we hammered out an agreement that gave either of us the green light to sell our fifty percent ownership stake in the hotel chain without needing other partner’s consent—as long as we found a buyer who met specific qualifications, like financial stability and industry experience. Back then, it actually was me who suggested it, appreciating the idea of an easy exit strategy. This way, if, for any reason, I didn’t enjoy working alongside Norman or, more crucially, if he turned out to be as unscrupulous as the man I once loved, I’d have a perfect escape route in place.
The irony of it all! Never in a million years did I anticipate that Norman would be the one considering a departure.
“Norman, I was only gone for two weeks! Why didn’t I know this was happening?” I demand, puzzled. “Are you in some sort of extreme midlife crisis?”
