Page 103 of Isabela

“Going rogue, I see,” Gael grunts. It’s me, of course I’m going rogue.

“Absolutely,” I tell them both. “Let’s do it.”

Our company sits on three floors of this building, so I walk into the main room I was in earlier with Mr. Bartow.

“Ladies and gentlemen, a moment of your time, please?” he calls out. People look over, and I sigh, looking for a desk to stand on. Damn shoes.

Finding a desk that’s currently unoccupied and doesn’t have any cubicle walls, I move over to it.

“Please don’t climb,” he groans, following me.

“Isa, please be careful,” Gael mutters.

“How about I take my shoes off for this,” I say instead. Slipping them off, I take his hand as I stand on the chair and then climb onto the desk.

“Hey everyone,” I address the room, looking around it. “I’m Isabela Cohen, and life has not been the best since my parents died. I miss them every day, as I’m sure you all do as well. I’m so sorry for everything that’s been happening here while my uncle did his best to keep me small and scared. I may not know much about the business side of this, but I know money. I want to make this company flourish again, so I can not only pay you your lost wages, but also give raises as well.”

“Why can’t you just pay us now?” someone yells out.

“My uncle was laundering money and embezzling from the company,” I respond back. “I don’t believe there is enough money to pay everyone and not go under at this time. I’m running the numbers, but the company is dangerously in the red.”

“That’s why I just wanted to sell it,” Mr. Gardner says, joining us. He looks green, and I’m glad he wasn’t completely immune to what he heard. I also don’t miss the handkerchief that he’s using to wipe his mouth with.

I guess he was one of the men puking earlier.

“We wouldn’t have jobs at all then,” Mr. Bartow says, frowning.

“And I wouldn’t have to pay you,” Mr. Gardner grunts with a shrug. “The new owners would sell the company for parts, and you would all be let go. The girl in bare fucking feet standing on a desk cares more about you all than I do.”

Well, he’s not wrong. Forty employees stare at me in this giant room, making me sigh.

“Isabela!” Harrison roars from the front of the building. Well, if things weren’t interesting already, they sure are now.

Glancing over at Mr. Bartow, I smirk.

“Would you please help me with the man yelling my name? He was supposed to be here earlier, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Bridget was a bitch to him,” I tell him.

There are a few chuckles around the room as Mr. Bartow nods and hurries out.

“Look, my life has been Hell for the last few years,” I confess. “I’m sure this light isn’t doing me any favors with my bruises. I am not afraid to bring in help when I need it, and who better than Harrison Travers? Some of you know that he was really good friends with my parents?—”

“Why are you on the desk, Isabela?” the man himself asks, striding into the room. “There’s a terrible secretary who kept telling me she didn’t know who you were.”

“She doesn’t like me,” I call across the room as he gets closer. “Hey, Harrison. It’s been ages.”

“Too fucking long, kiddo. Get the fuck down from there,” he mutters, reaching me and helping me down. Turning as he tugs me into his side, he addresses the room.

“Look, one thing we’re not going to do is jump down Isabela’s throat about things outside of her control,” he says. “She wants to help fix things, and she has a lot of powerful people in her corner. I’m sorry things are so shitty right now. I didn’t realize how bad things were, mostly because I thought Isabel was safe and cared for by her piece of shit uncle. I want better things for her, my best friends’ company, and you all.”

Sighing as I lean into Harrison, I remember why he was always one of my parents’ favorite friends. He gets shit done.

“The board can’t sell the company without my or Harrison’s approval, and they won’t get it from either of us. I know asking for patience is shitty, but I’m going to do the best I can to turn things around,” I explain to them.

Everyone nods, though some grumble, and to be honest I understand the frustration.

“There’s someone in the lobby to see you,” Mr. Bartow says, surprising me as he touches my elbow.

“Who?” I ask suspiciously. No one should know I’m here.

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