Page 4 of Stuck with Mr. Grump

“They’re saying Sterling’s father isn’t his real father. What the actual fuck?”

He really looks upset. If I’m remembering correctly, Carson and this Sterling guy used to be best friends until Sterling movedaway. They apparently still keep in touch, but I’ve never met him or any of the Harringtons.

Anika’s holding her phone now. “The blogs are blowing up. They’re saying Sterling doesn’t deserve to inherit the company. They’re saying Aunt Lana had an affair. And this person just commented that Sterling’s a bastard. It’s really bad,” she says, chewing on her bottom lip.

Damn, that’s really mean.

“Shouldn’t you call him?” I ask my brother. “You’re friends, right?”

Carson leans back with a small sigh. “On the off-chance he’d even pick up my call, what would I even ask, muffin? ‘Yo, I just read an article talking about how you’re not really your father’s son. Are you okay?’”

“Yeah,” I say on a nod. “I’m sure he’d appreciate a friend checking on him.”

Carson smiles softly. “Sterling’s not that type of person. He’d hang up on me if I tried that shit. The guy’s not exactly sunshine and rainbows. I am worried about him, though. This must be rough.”

“Something like that will have damaging effects on their company as well, won’t it? The issue of succession aside, corporations rely on publicity,” Anika points out.

“Yeah,” Carson huffs. “If the rumors are true, both Harrington Holdings and the Harrington family are about to have a rough couple of months.”

CHAPTER 2

Sterling

I’m immensely skilled at tuning people out. Filtering irrelevant information is a talent I’ve come to hone over the years. I’m currently seated at the head of a long boardroom table, and there are several other men in chairs that run the length of the table in front of me. Each of them are in crisp suits befitting their positions as executives of my family’s company. And they’re yelling, talking over each other—an attitude that is decidedly not befitting their position.

They’ve thus far ignored my attempts to silence them so I’m sitting quietly, my fingers tapping against the table, as I wait for them to shut the hell up. Truthfully, my attempt to silence them would be much more successful if I had any idea what to even say.

This is a mess.

That’s all I’ve been able to think since last night. Since the news broke. If it were anything else, any other problem, I would have come up with several solutions. But considering the root of the problem is none other than myself, I’m coming up blank. I haven’t even begun to come to terms with the news.

“Mr. Harrington,” a voice says sharply, breaking through the haze.

My gaze lifts, landing on a bulky man in a navy blue suit and a short, neatly trimmed mustache. Wellis Barton. He’s the head of financials in the company, a capable man who’s really good at his job.

I arch an eyebrow, waiting for him to speak.

“Despite the news breaking just last night, we’re already seeing a sharp decline in the company’s stock prices. There have been several calls from stockholders, questions which we have no answer to. This is a PR nightmare. What is the company’s stance on this… tasteless rumor? I believe the first step is to put out a press release.”

My chest rises and falls as I consider his words. What the fuck do they expect me to say? I only just found out about the article last night. I haven’t even begun to form an opinion on this entire debacle. I tend to do that when something doesn’t make sense—put it off, ignore it for as long as I can. Clear my mind until I can come up with a valid solution or explanation.

To be fair, the fastest way to do so would probably be answering my father’s calls. He’s been trying to reach me all morning. I’ve been putting off the hard conversation, though. I’m terrified of what he’ll have to tell me. I’m angry because if it’s true then that means my mother has once again done something unforgivable.

I’ve been a Harrington the past twenty-eight years of my life, and now it feels like I’m about to lose that vital part of my identity.

What’s even more worrying is that the blog that put up the article is known for its fact-checking. If it was a bold-faced lie to garner views, it wouldn’t be such a problem. But it’s not. There’s even an undisclosed source assuring them that my identity as a Harrington is nothing more than a fraud.

My voice is steadier than I feel when I finally speak. “Since this news was obviously meant to destabilize the company, I think the last thing we should be doing is panicking.”

“What would you suggest we do in lieu ofpanicking, Mr. Vice President?” a bald, green-eyed man spits.

The scorn in his voice is clear as day. Michael Lawson is a bigwig executive who owns a lot of company shares. When it comes to the company’s succession, he’s also firmly on my brother’s team. I’m sure he’s just thrilled about this whole mess.

The room falls silent, all eyes turning to me, anticipation heavy in the air. I take a deliberate breath, steadying myself.

“Thank you for your concern, Michael,” I reply, my voice unwavering. “Our immediate priority is to manage the narrative. I’ve already instructed our public relations team to prepare a statement addressing the allegations. Concurrently, we’re initiating an internal review to ascertain the source of this leak and its validity.”

There are a few murmurs of agreement.

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