Page 14 of Billionaire Romantic
Sitting on the cushioned couch that gets the early morning beam of sun, I start to feel a little better. My climbing plants frame the view, giving the space a romantic charm. A breeze stirs my little herb garden and I can smell the thyme.
I always feel closest to my mother when I’m out here. Even though I can hear the honking traffic and the sounds of New York City waking up below me, this space always feels so peaceful. Up here, nothing can touch me. I can almost imagine that the worldisn’tcrumbling into a pile of rubble all around me.
I come out here when I need to feel her presence. To think about what my life might have looked like if she was still in it.And to remember how it used to feel when she was infusing everything with the unfiltered love she always surrounded me with.
Mama, if you can hear me, please help me. Help me figure out what to do. Help me make the right decision.
Looking out over the city skyline, to the European-looking water tower on the roof of the building next door, I take in the familiarity and comfort of the view. And I contemplate my options.
One, I can try to bring in one or more shareholders who will help me service the debt for a share of the company.
The problem with that option is that the company has alotof debt.Eighteen million dollarsof it.A number I prefer not to think about too closely. Once upon a time it was worth seventy million. But times have changed.
I’d have to offer themajorityof the company’s shares to make it an attractive enough proposition. Which means I’d lose control. Which means I’d be at the mercy of the new shareholders. They might sell the company, possibly for an unreasonably low price.
Two, I can sell the company myself and try to get as much as I can for it. But even if I sell at market value, I’ll be left with so much debt I’ll have to sell my apartment.
Best case scenario: I sell the company for way above market value for it and get to keep my apartment. This, however, is about as likely as me getting a new pet Pegasus to fly around on at sunset every evening.
Three, I can wait until we go bankrupt and lose everything.
And my fourth and final option: I can hope that by some miracle our share prices suddenly skyrocket.
But let’s face it, in today’s economy, I might as well wish for Ireland to drift across the Atlantic and park up next to the Statue of Liberty, for leprechauns to hand me their pot of gold as theybuild a quaint but sturdy bridge that connects my balcony to the green fields so I can visit my mother’s grave whenever I feel like it. And my father’s too, once I get over being mad at him for not putting the apartment in a trust, like any normal person would have. (My mother told my father to not even consider burying her ashes anywhere but in the County Cork dirt or she’d haunt him for the rest of time. In the end, I decided to bury my father’s ashes right next to hers because he loved her more than anything and by then there was no one left in his family to complain about it.)
So, no matter what I decide to do, all four options add up the same.
I’m going to lose everything.
I honestly don’t evencareabout the company. I’d gladlygiveit away if it meant I could keep my apartment.
My apartment is my life, my world and it contains every memory I’ve ever had. I had hoped it would also contain my future.And my own little girl, with strawberry-blond curls and eyes the color of a County Cork summer day.
But that’s not going to happen. Keeping my home, no matter how many times I crunch the numbers, is not on the list of my options.
The thought makes me once again want to pound my fists on the ground and burst into tears.
But I don’t. I can’t. I haven’t cried since before my mother died. Not even as a grief-stricken four-year-old. Not a single tear.
Instead, Iusemy sorrow. I channel it into figuring out what I’m going to do.
Everythinginmy apartment will have to be sold too, of course.
All my mother’s beautiful pieces and all of mine. Each one has all the milestones of my life etched into the marble and the wood. Soon to be sold to the highest bidder.
I’m trying to find a bright side in all this because it’s what I do. But none are coming to mind at this exact moment.
Maybe it’ll begoodto start completely over. Yes. A refresh. Selling the place that contains all my tragic memories will give me a new, fresh beginning, free from pain. Wide open.
Except that it also contains the beautiful memories. The happy ones. The ones full of love.
Anyway.
Reality bites, as they say.
It’ll befun, I try to convince myself. I’ll find a swanky new place to live. Somewhere cool and funky. Modern and artsy instead of old and history-seeped.
I won’t be able to afford to continue with my MBA for a while until I figure out how I’m going to survive at the most basic levels, but who cares? Maybe the MBA was never meant to be.
