Page 12 of Daddy's Dirty Little Secret

7

XANDER

My chest burned a little, coughing fits taking me for a run every few hours, but I wasn’t the sort to call in sick or go running to the ER for help due to a little cough. Amelia had been under the weather for days now following Mr. Tharmor’s absence. It was probably the bronchitis they passed around, but I had to grit my teeth and work through it. With the new marketing push going on I had no time to sit back and play hooky, even for something like this.

I tossed a soiled tissue into the trash and willed my eyes to focus on the reports. Our lead generation had gone through the roof thanks to Amelia and her team’s brilliant marketing. They’d chosen a red and blue color scheme that really popped off the computer screen, which I was certain was the real reason for the ad’s success. Our sales were skyrocketing over this, and while it wasn’t the sort of work we were used to doing, it was helping generate revenue we’d been losing for the past few months.

The phone buzzed across my desk like it had a mind of its own, dragging me out of my numbers haze. I saw the name on the screen—Gerard Millet—and immediately felt a pinch inmy chest that had nothing to do with the cough still dragging through me like barbed wire.

I cleared my throat and answered. “Mr. Millet. Just reviewing the projections. I’ve got you down for a demo next week?—”

“Yeah, listen, Xander.” His tone was apologetic, which meant nothing good ever followed. “You’ve been great, and the tech is solid, but we’re moving forward with another partner.”

I leaned back in my chair, silent for a beat too long. “Another partner?”

“Tacticon,” he said, not bothering to pad it. “They threw in a six-month integration package and cut their licensing fee in half. I mean, your platform looks cleaner, but theirs…you know how it is. Upper management likes the spreadsheet with fewer zeros.”

I let out a breath through my nose, jaw tight. “You said after the golf meeting the contract was nearly finalized.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I meant it at the time. But I don’t make these decisions alone. My CFO and legal team flagged the cost margin and started pulling comparisons. Tacticon came back fast with sweeteners.”

“Sweeteners,” I repeated, standing up and walking to the window, needing the movement. “And stability doesn’t matter anymore? We’ve been in the space two years longer than they have. Our platform doesn’t glitch out in the middle of team syncs.”

“It’s not personal,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You’re still ahead, tech-wise. But you know how procurement is. Dollars speak.”

I said nothing for a moment, eyes scanning the skyline like it might offer answers.

“This decision’s going to bite you in six months,” I muttered, half to myself.

“I hope not,” he replied. “But listen, I still believe in what you’re building. If anything changes with Tacticon, I’ll be back on the line. And I meant it when I said we should keep in touch.”

I ended the call without another word, letting the phone fall back to the desk with a dull thud.

ProForge, Tacticon—it didn’t matter. Every one of these firms was circling like vultures, nipping at our ankles while we were mid-sprint. They didn’t have to be better, just cheaper. And right now, I was bleeding patience.

I stood there, chewing over the loss, until the familiar tension settled in between my shoulders. That call could wait. Langston, Millet—it was a pattern now.

I picked up my phone again and scrolled to Amelia’s name.

She answered on the second ring. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Need you in my office. Now.” I didn’t wait for confirmation before hanging up.

I stayed standing, phone still in my hand, staring at the city beyond the glass.

It didn’t matter how sharp our product was or how solid the pitch. I couldn’t seem to close these deals—not like he had. Laurence had a way with people. Clients trusted him. Believed in him. Half of them were still here because of promises he made before I bought the company.

I’d thought I could take what he built and scale it. Make it better. Sleeker. Smarter.

But the trust he carried into every room didn’t come with the sale.

I glanced at the screen again—engagement was up, leads were pouring in. Amelia was killing it. The whole team was delivering. But conversions? Still slipping through my fingers.

I didn’t build this company. And sometimes, it felt like the clients knew it.

A quiet knock broke the thought before Amelia slipped inside, a soft rustle of her cardigan brushing against the doorframe. Her cheeks were still a little flushed from whatever was left of the fever, and her nose was pink from the cold meds or tissues, or both. But her eyes were clear now, focused. Sharp.

“Hey,” she said, stepping in fully, a portfolio under her arm and her phone in her hand. “You sounded murdery on the phone.”

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