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 wellinto 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 themorning 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.
As I exit the elevator and walk onto the top floor that had once been occupied by Braxton, I tighten my jaw. The man was insistent on using the entire floor as his office, a monument to his own ego. Despite his age, he was never without a companion on his arm—the ‘flavor of the week’ as he so charmingly put it. But as I walk through the hallway today, all the pictures of the scantily clad models that he had slept with at some point—his trophy wall—are gone. The doors on either side of me areclosed, and at the end of the hallway sits a small office that belongs to the CEO’s assistant.
The woman behind the desk is a sharp-eyed brunette with a pixie cut framing her angular face perfectly. She looks to be the same age as me, if not a little older. Her crisp white blouse doesn’t have a single crease in it, and her pencil skirt goes past her knees—a refreshing change from Braxton’s preferred dress code. At least that confirms one thing: this CEO isn’t going to be obsessed with the hemlines of his employees.
“Miss Thorne,” the woman greets me politely, her brown eyes calm and steady like still water. “My name is Clarice Jameson. The CEO is waiting for you.”
Clarice. The woman who sent me that email.
I’ve been to my fair share of meetings, enough to read the undercurrents and power plays. For a moment, I find it odd that she doesn’t refer to the CEO by his last name. However, the momentary confusion vanishes as I look at the imposing door before me. “Thanks.”
“Are these the files you were asked to compile?” Clarice asks, holding her hand out.
“Yes,” I reply curtly. “And more. I’ll hand them over to him myself, if you don’t mind.”
She gives me a polite smile. “Of course, right this way.”
She opens the door for me, announcing clearly, “Miss Thorne is here to see you.”
Braxton’s room has been stripped clean of his gaudy decorations and personal photographs. The only things remaining are the sofa set, the imposing mahogany desk, the glass coffee table, and his leather chair—all quality pieces that speak to the company’s success in the luxury yacht market. The new CEO has his back to me, his hands folded behind him, as he looks out the floor-to-ceiling window at Manhattan’s skyline shimmering in the heat. Even with his back to me, his presence is commanding, filling the space with an energy that makes the air feelcharged. His suit is perfectly tailored to him, cutting an attractive figure that speaks of money and power. The man clearly looks after himself, and in my eyes, that means he’s got discipline. He’s also quite secretive since no matter how much I tried to research, I could find no trace or record of the acquisition online.
“Thank you, Clarice. You can go now.”
That deep baritone voice has me jerking like I’ve been struck by lightning. I know it. I know it all too well, the way it used to whisper my name in the dark, the way it used to make promises it never intended to keep.