Page 4 of My Cruel Billionaire

“It is in your vested interest to remember who you are speaking to, Joseph.”

Joe’s face paled about seven shades. He released me instantly and started fawning over the VIP.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Joe said, actually bowing his head as he backed away. “I didn’t recognize you at first. Please forgive me.”

Then, I guess to prove he was still somewhat in charge, Joe looked over at me and smiled.

“I’ll talk to you later, Jenna.”

“No you won’t. I’m blocking your number.”

I turned around to thank the VIP, my savior, the cigar-smoking man. Only when I saw his face, my voice died in my throat.

I knew this man. Very, very well.

Chapter Two

Jenna

Staring Michael Wallace in the eyes sent my mind back five years into the past. I never thought I’d stare into those eyes ever again. I still remembered the last time we’d faced each other…

Before I started working for Evan Jones, I was a personal assistant for Michael. The beginning of the end started at a board meeting for his company. What really stands out in my memory is the texture of the glossy cherry wood meeting table.

They say that scent is the strongest sense that’s tied to memory. Well, I can remember the smell of Pointwoods manager Ted Blonsky’s cheap cologne just fine. It was like he’d bathed in it. Ted sat to my right, and my eyes were burning from his ‘showered in stink pretty’ stench.

So, I focused on the table. The individual grains and the swirling knots lurking beneath a sea of epoxy. It helped me ignore the droning of “Methuselah” Maurice Prentiss, the manager of a hedge fund that Michael owned. Maurice sure liked the sound of his own voice, and when he had a captive audience like the boardroom, he could go on forever.

“Okay, Maurice,” Michael said at length. About ten minutes too late for my estimation. “Thanks so much for that… detailed… verbal essay about why the fund you manage is hemorrhaging money. Pack up your things and pick up your severance check from HR. You’re fired."

Maurice flinched, and then looked fearfully at Michael.

“Fired? Just because I had a couple of bad months?”

“You’ve had fourteen bad months, Maurice,” Michael said. His eyes could blaze with fury, or they could be cold as ice. He somehow split the difference with Maurice. “Time and time again I’ve given you a chance to turn things around and every time it bites me in the ass. I’m done with you. You’re done here.”

“But… but my reports,” Maurice stammered. He looked at me like I was going to help him, but I turned my gaze away. Michael could be indiscriminate whenever he was slinging his anger around and it was easy to get caught in the crossfire. “I told you good reasons for why I was struggling to show a profit. Logical reasons.”

“Maurice, what’s the difference between a reason and an excuse, again?” Michael’s terse voice sounded unnaturally loud. The silence that followed his outburst was louder still. “Well?”

“I… you always say there isn’t—”

“There is no difference between a reason and an excuse. I focus on results. And seeing as you’re not getting me the results you promised you would when you campaigned for your current… excuse me, for your FORMER position on this board, I’m showing you the door.”

“Mr. Wallace… Michael, come on. You came to my son’s birthday party.”

“Yes, I remember. I gifted your son a new tricycle. I’m sorry I couldn’t gift his father with competence.”

Maurice stood there in stunned silence for a long moment. I felt bad for him, but not too bad. Quite frankly I had expected Michael to give him the ax a long time ago.

“But Michael—”

“Nobody in this room calls me Michael. I let you get away with it at your son’s party, and that was a one-time occurrence.”

“Mr. Wallace—”

“Shut up. Get out.”

Michael’s tone brooked no argument. Maurice gathered up his papers—I don’t know why he bothered since he was being fired—and sulked his way out of the meeting.

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