Page 101 of Isabela

“Hi, I’m Isabela Cohen, and I have a meeting with my board,” I tell her. They don’t know it yet, but I’m going to be cleaning house the moment I wrestle control from these men.

The secretary glances up, and I recognize her immediately. Unfortunately, Bridget is not a fan of mine. She’s been working here for ten years, and I was always just the owner’s bratty child. Her lips curl as she double checks the calendar.

She taps the mouse a few times, and I have a feeling she’s going to tell me it’s been rescheduled. Well, too bad. I’m done playing by the rules.

“I have the confirmation emails that the date is correct, you can either walk me down there, or I’ll escort myself,” I tell her.

“No, you misunderstand, your meeting was canceled completely,” Bridget says, smiling serenely at me. “These men don’t have time for children playing at being adults, sweet girl.”

Ew. I’m not her sweet anything.

“Keep going, Isa. Just walk back to the boardroom, beautiful. Those men are leaders in the cartel, and just had a meeting with Mr. Gardner. There’s some shady shit going on. The board is still meeting in the conference room it looks like,” Gael grunts, unhappy.

“You misunderstand, no one is playing here today,” I tell Bridget, turning to make my way to the conference room.

I see a few faces I know in the large room filled with desks as I walk through. It’s intimidating because I need to find a way to pay these people. My uncle has skipped three pay periods, and I don’t know how everyone hasn’t just walked off the job.

“Isabela?” a man I recognize steps in front of me. “I’m Joseph Bartow. Are you going to fix this mess finally?”

Stopping, I nod. “If I can ever get to that conference room, that’s exactly my plan, Mr. Bartow. At this rate, it may take an act of God,” I mutter.

Eyes widening, he looks over his shoulder as he realizes he’s in my path. “Well, I’m not God, but I’ll get you there,” he promises. Holding out his arm, he smirks as I take it. Walking together, he escorts me across the room, ignoring everyone else.

Whispers begin as we walk, and I get it. This is their livelihood, and I’m a twenty-one year old girl, who is struggling to fix the mistakes that have been made. I don’t have a business degree, but I’m willing to learn how to turn this all around.

“Ignore them,” Mr. Bartow mutters. “Things have been really weird here lately. Unsavory people keep coming in and out of the building as well.”

“My uncle was money laundering.” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “Please don’t repeat that yet. It’s a whole thing, and there’s a reason why I haven’t been able to come in before this.”

I purposely didn’t wear any makeup today, and my face is a glorious shade of greens and yellows right now. Mr. Bartow stops in front of the conference room, turning to face me. It’s as if now that he’s not angry that I’ve just been “letting” this happen to the company, he can really see what’s in front of him.

“Shit,” he grunts. “Did he do this?”

“No, but he has hurt me before,” I say with a shrug. “I needed to stay out of his way so he wouldn’t kill me, and that meant that I didn’t pay enough attention to Cohen Security and Communications.”

“We obviously don’t have all the information,” he says with a sigh. “It’s just been hard not being paid, but being scared to move on. I’m glad to see you didn’t forget about us.”

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I have a lot of work ahead of me. First, dealing with the board of directors.”

“Good luck, I’ll make sure no one bothers you,” Mr. Bartow says, moving to lean against the wall as he crosses his arms across his chest.

“Thanks,” I tell him genuinely, a big smile crossing my lips.

“Not getting paid anyway,” he jokes, winking at me.

“I like him,” Theodore murmurs in my ear. Shaking my head at the absurdity of my life, I knock briskly on the door before opening it.

“Hello, gentlemen,” I say, walking into the room. “I understand someone canceled our meeting?”

“I was told you weren’t coming,” one of the board members mutters, glancing at Mr. Gardner.

Gardner is sitting at the head of the table, a paunch clear over the edge of his pants. He looks like a well-off white man who isn’t used to ‘little girls’ refusing to take direction.

“I figured she wouldn’t when she heard we were selling the company,” he says with a shrug.

“You’re what?” I ask.

“Isa, he can’t do that,” Gael says calmly in my ear. “Even if your uncle was alive, he couldn’t sell it either. Even if the money isn’t in your trust anymore, the company is yours per your parents’ will and that hasn’t been altered.”

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