Page 12 of Unlocking Melodies

“And I run it.” I paused at my office door. “Any other attempts at parental reconciliation I should avoid?”

“Just the usual voicemails about responsibility and legacy.” She followed me into the office, tablet ready.

“Anything else?”

“Just the board meeting prep, three acquisition proposals, two PR fires, and one very eligible daughter of a venture capitalist to dodge.” She glanced up from her tablet.

I pulled up my private server, the one not even Mia had access to. The folder was still there, unchanged since I'd last opened it: “Midnight Music.” Inside, hundreds of photos I couldn't bring myself to delete. Newspaper clippings I shouldn't have kept. And one video file, dated from our last night together, of two young men playing a piece that never got finished.

My watch buzzed again. The Beijing team was waiting. The board was waiting. The whole damn world was waiting for Ethan Cole, CEO of Cole Technologies, to make his next perfect move.

I closed the folder. Some kinds of control came at a cost. I'd learned that lesson eight years ago.

The Beijing team had been up for twenty hours straight, and it showed. Dark circles under eyes, slightly rumpled suits, that particular mix of caffeine jitters and exhaustion that I remembered from my own late nights closing deals. But their numbers were perfect. They always were.

“Mr. Cole,” Liu Wei, their lead negotiator, began in careful English. “These projections assume a very aggressive timeline for integration.”

I leaned back in my chair, a calculated show of ease. “The semiconductor market waits for no one, Mr. Liu. Neither does our competition.”

“Perhaps,” Board Member Reuben interjected, “someone with more... seasoned experience should review the timeline.” The emphasis on 'seasoned' wasn't subtle.

The room temperature seemed to drop several degrees. I saw Mia shift slightly, preparing for damage control.

“Mr. Reuben.” I kept my voice mild, pleasant even. “Your experience is, of course, invaluable. Particularly your work on the '98 Asian market expansion. Though, if I recall correctly, that initiative took eighteen months to show returns and cost us three major contracts.” I smiled. “But perhaps my younger, less seasoned memory is playing tricks on me.”

Reuben's face went from red to white. The Beijing team suddenly found their tablets fascinating. Even Mia winced.

“Now,” I continued, turning back to Liu Wei, “about that timeline. I think you'll find our integration team has some creative solutions to propose.”

The next hour was a dance I'd perfected over eight years. Lead the discussion but let others feel heard. Show authority without arrogance. Drop casual references to their local customs and culture - just enough to impress without seeming like you're trying to impress.

By the time we wrapped up, we had a deal at 2% under projected budget. The Beijing team looked relieved. Reuben looked like he'd swallowed something unpleasant. And I felt nothing. Just another perfect performance in an endless series of perfect performances.

“Nicely done,” Mia murmured as we headed to my next appointment. “Though I think Reuben might be having chest pains.”

“He's fine. His ego's just bruised.”

“You didn't have to eviscerate him quite so thoroughly.”

“Consider it a teaching moment.” I checked my watch. “Who's at lunch?”

“Peterson Group. They're interested in the quantum computing initiative. Helena Peterson brought her daughter. Again.”

Of course she had. “Cancel it.”

“They're already at Aureole. In the private room. With the wine pairings you pre-selected last week.”

I sighed. “Fine. But you're running interference.”

“Always do, boss.”

Aureole was exactly what you'd expect from a restaurant where lunch could cost more than some people's monthly rent. All clean lines and subtle wealth, designed to make the people inside feel important without being gauche about it.

Helena Peterson waved from the private dining room, her daughter Emma positioned strategically in the seat next to mine. They'd clearly coordinated outfits - cream blazers over silk shells, pearls at their throats. The Peterson family equivalent of battle armor.

“Ethan, darling.” Helena air-kissed somewhere near my cheek. “We were just discussing your brilliant work with the neural interface patents.”

I highly doubted that.

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