The Billionaire Bargain #2(11)
“Are you going to have a killer party?” Ken asked. “We’re invited, right?” He laughed in that joking-not-joking way people have when they want you to give them something but don’t want to come out and ask for it and risk being rejected.
I could see the rest of the attendees of the meeting bucking for their chance to leap in and congratulate me, and coincidentally, get me to acknowledge them and maybe favor their personal work projects, and I decided to cut this nonsense off at the pass before it all snowballed into a congratulations avalanche and we had to call out a rescue team to dig me out from under the deep layers of smothering well-wishes.
Plus, it was hard enough acting like I couldn’t see Grant in the corner, couldn’t feel his eyes tracing the tight contours of my curve-hugging power suit, without everyone reminding me that in the eyes of the world, we were the latest Brangelina-esque power couple.
“Thank you all, but we’re here for business, people, so let’s get to it,” I said briskly. Maybe too briskly. Everyone leapt for their seats and their laptops like I’d electrocuted them.
Gail and Michelle’s presentation was first. They held up a graph that resembled the flight of a rocket.
“The share price is undergoing an unbelievable rebound,” Michelle chirped. Gail clicked on the projector, which displayed glowing quotes from various business journals about our recent success. “Forbes called us a ‘Cinderella story!’”
I asked Michelle and Gail a few questions about the long-term sustainability of the share price increase, and we put together a committee dedicated to keeping it growing a stable rate. Next up were Ken and his cronies from marketing. Ken popped his collar—who did he think he was, a prep school senior?—and began:
“So, uh, this is one of our ads. It’s totally blowing them away in the forty plus male demographic. Ninety percent approval rating. Dim the lights, guys.”
An intern dimmed the lights while Ken called up a video on YouTube. Gentle violin music played as the camera panned over white marble columns, perfectly manicured green lawns, and flower beds so crisp and clean it looked as though they had never even heard of the concept of weeds.
“Family,” intoned a rich British accent as the camera continued to pan across to a picnic table by a lake so picturesque it could have been painted by Norman Rockwell, with a small blonde boy and a golden retriever romping in the shallows. “Family is the greatest gift of all.
“Family feeds us, clothes us, protects us,” the voiceover continued in its rich plummy tones as the ad cut from a view of a blonde family seated around a Thanksgiving dinner table while a golden retriever watched hopefully, a young girl in a graduation gown having her cap fixed to her head by a proud mother, a father scooping two little twins in matching onesies out of the way of an oncoming car.
“Even when there’s nothing else we can count on—we can count on family.”
The ad cut to a black and white photo of a man with a seriously ridiculous mustache and a twinkle in his eye.
“In 1963, Charles Devlin founded the company that would become Devlin Media Corp. And today, more than sixty years later—” the picture shifted to that of a young handsome couple with a smiling child on their lap, oh god that must be Grant’s parents, and then to a paparazzi shot of Grant and I smiling adoringly into each other’s eyes at the gala—“it’s still in the family.”
The picture faded out to a shot of the Devlin Media Corp headquarters, silhouetted by a setting sun blazing gold, orange, and bright pink. Fancy lettering blooming beneath the silhouette: Devlin Media Corp. Family continuity. Family stability.
The lights came back on. “We’re blitzing with stuff like this,” Ken said gleefully. “And man, people are just eating up all this stuff about continuity, all that jazz about stability and stuff.”
My stomach felt the opposite of stable. My stomach felt less stable than a war-torn country in the Balkan Peninsula.
“Good work, everyone,” Grant said. “Keep it up. Be sure to make regular progress reports to Lacey, and come to her or me with any questions.”
Everyone filed out, Grant forestalling any more congratulations by slinging an arm around my shoulder and leaning in to whisper in my ear in a way that broadcast ‘this is an intimate communication, stay the hell away if you want to retain your jobs and also possibly all of your internal organs’ to even the most body-language-impaired of our employees.
“Jennings is back on board with the buyout talks,” he whispered in my ear. It was absolutely goddamn criminal how his dark honey voice and hot breath made that sound sexier than the most explicit dirty talk. “You’re an absolute wonder with that man; he couldn’t be more wrapped around your little finger.”
“That’s right,” I sassed, trying to keep my breathing under control. “I’m the brains of this operation. You just stand there and look pretty.”
He laughed and took my hand. “Come on down to my office, Lacey. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
? ? ?
Somewhere, in an alternate universe where up was down, red was green, and Grant did things without an ulterior motive, the person Grant wanted me to meet was my new assistant, finally hired and overflowing with qualifications, great ideas, and a can-do attitude.
In this universe, the person Grant wanted me to meet was an event planner named Siobhan, who wore a series of gauzy rainbow veils and a general sense of disdain.