1
“Miss Bellanger?” The voice of my secretary interrupts my train of thought as I review some contract revisions that require my signature.
“Hmm?” I don’t bother looking up—thinking she probably needs to reschedule some meeting or other.
“Your father has requested a meeting with you.”
This breaks me out of my concentration entirely. “He did?”
Andrea, my secretary, seems hesitant, pensive. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Did he say when?”
“Ummm, now. He just called directly, himself. He’s in his personal conference room.”
“I suppose he didn’t say what the meeting was about?”
Andrea looks shocked at the suggestion. “Of course not, ma’am.”
“No, of course not.” I sigh.
He probably wants an update on the Coselli project—I’m not the official lead on it, but I am a lead in pretty much every way that matters. I gather my materials on the project, stuff them into my leather portfolio, and head for the private elevator which will take me to Dad’s warren of offices at the top of the Bellanger Tower. I press my thumb to the keypad, wait for it to scan my print and recognize me as authorized for access to the top floor, and then ride up the sixteen floors to the very top. The elevator door opens onto a hushed foyer, brightly lit with natural sunlight from the windows, which stretch from floor to ceiling. The floor is thickly carpeted, the walls are a neutral gray with prints of famous paintings here and there—some of them, like the Monet outside Dad’s personal office, is an original. I’ve always thought this whole top floor is rather understated for the personal offices of Thomas Holden Bellanger—one of the most wealthy and powerful men on the planet, but that’s how Dad likes it. He has no need to impress anyone, and anyway, no one outside his direct, personal staff has access to this floor…and me, of course, being his daughter.
There’s no one to greet me, no secretary or receptionist—if you make it this far, you know you’re expected and you know where to go. I head for the conference room, a surprisingly small corner of the floor—small, but encased in glass on two sides, allowing for a breathtaking view of Manhattan from up here on the sixtieth floor.
I take a seat on one side of a conference table which seems to be roughly a mile long—there are doors at each end of the room, and a giant, floor-to-ceiling flat-screen TV on one wall, with a bank of controls and connections on a nearby table to allow for various setups for telecommunication meetings and presentations.
Why Dad wants to meet me up here, I have no idea. Usually, when he wants a report or an update from me, it’s because he wants my input on something outside my official duties as a senior project manager. As his daughter, I’m being groomed to take over eventually. Usually, those meetings happen in his office, informally. The conference room is formal, for official business—there’s recording software running 24/7, so every meeting that takes place here is on the record.
At that moment the door opens and James, Dad’s personal assistant, walks in, followed by Dad’s secretary, Harriet, and then Dad himself.
James Marshall Fenworth III, Esquire is, honestly, one of the single most frighteningly competent and terrifyingly efficient human beings I’ve ever met in my life, and I’ve met two presidents, two White House Chiefs of Staff, and the CEOs of dozens of the most successful companies in the world. Harriet Sheridan isn’t any less scarily efficient—she’s worked for Dad for twenty-five years, has an eidetic memory, and absolutely zero patience for wasted time.
As his right and left hands, James and Harriet are never present at my update/intel meetings with Dad, so their presence signals that this is definitely not an ordinary, unofficial meeting between me and my dad—rather, if James and Harriet are here, and it’s taking place in the conference room, this is a meeting between Thomas Holden Bellanger, founder, president, and CEO of Bellanger Industries, and me, Brooklyn Bellanger, senior project manager working several pay grades down—and even though I happen to be his daughter, I know this is no ordinary meeting.
Dad takes the seat at the head of the table and smiles at me. “Hi, honey.”
I blink slowly, clearing my throat. “Hi, Dad.”
James sits on Dad’s right, and Harriet on his left, and once they’re settled, Dad glances at James, and they have a silent exchange, and then Dad accepts a file folder from James—my personnel file, I assume. Eeek—this is really official. Something big is happening, and I focus on keeping my heart from hammering out of my chest.
Finally, he looks up at me. “I’m sure you’re wondering why the formality.”
I shrug, nod. “It’s a bit out of the ordinary, yes.”
He nods. “You know very well I’ve long dreamed of being able to pass my position on to you someday, and until then, have you beside me as my second-in-command.”
“Well, yes, but I always figured that meant, you know,eventually. When I was ready.”
He frowns. “Do you think I’d bring you up before you’re ready?” he asks. “I’ve been grooming you for this for years. You know this.” He leafs through my file again. “My proposition for you is something you may not initially agree with or even like. But please hear me out.”
“Okay.”
“I know you’re expecting me to start you out small, to earn your way to the top and honestly, in my opinion, putting you in as a senior project managerwasstarting you out small, Brooklyn. But, truthfully, I think your talents are wasted mucking your way up from the bottom. I say this having watched the way you handled yourself at NYU, in your internships, and in your employment experiences outside Bellanger Industries. You are, after all,mydaughter. You have proven yourself in the world beyond my control and influence, and now it’s time for you to take on more responsibility. To work for me directly.” He smiles. “I’m not getting any younger, and I would like to be able to, if not exactly retire, scale back my involvement in day-to-day affairs, knowing Bellanger Industries is in the capable hands of a Bellanger—yours, my dear.”
My heart skips. “Really?”
“I’m not throwing you into the VP office just yet, darling, so don’t worry.” He grins, knowing that’s what I would assume, and knowing too that I don’t feel quite ready for that just yet, being only a few years out from my MBA in Business at NYU. “I’m thinking real estate. That arm of the business is…not suffering, but not doing as well as it should. It needs a more creative and forward-thinking mind at the helm.” He accepts a different folder from Harriet, and hands it to me—it’s a portfolio of real estate holdings owned, operated, and developed by Bellanger Real Estate Development, along with projects in various stages of completion.
