Page 26 of Sweet Sinners
I draw in a slow breath, bracing myself. Then I dive right into the numbers, cutting through the bullshit, making it impossible for them to deny the sheer wastefulness of a private fleet we don't evenneed. I walk them through it—step by step—showing exactly how streamlining will free up resources, not just for the company’s bottom line, but for them, personally. Expanded PTO. More flexible hours. Longer, well-earned vacations.
The silence that follows sits heavy, thick enough to choke on, and doubt tries to claw its way through my armor. Did I push too far?
Then Mr. Sinclair clears his throat, breaking the tension. "You mentioned something about a charity initiative?" His tone remains even, but the spark of interest is unmistakable.
I latch onto that lifeline without hesitation. "Yes. Corporate donations offer tax advantages, yes, but they also bolster our public image—crucial as we move forward." I pause, meeting each of their eyes, holding their attention. "But it’s more than money. People today aren’t just chasing paychecks—they want purpose. To be part of something bigger than themselves. We can give them that."
I let the words settle, then continue, my voice steady. "I propose we start with local animal shelters. Everyone loves dogs. It’s an easy cause to rally behind. The sale of the jet fleet would fund the program, and we can reinvest part of our savings to keep it going. To show our genuine commitment, I'll personally match donations."
Jackson scoffs loudly, cutting through the room. "Oh, so now you’re playing the hero? You get to swoop in and pretend you're some savior?"
Before I can fire back, Mr. Sinclair’s cane slams against the floor, echoing sharply, silencing Jackson. "I like it," Sinclair states firmly, his voice resonating louder than any insult Jackson could throw. "Those jets have been bleeding us dry for years. If it were solely up to me, we'd sell off at least two."
His approval shifts the entire room, murmurs of agreement rising around us.
Across the table, Jackson looks like he's about to choke on his tongue.
My eyes lock back onto him, unwavering. "Jackson," I say, keeping my voice firm yet calm, "if you have concerns, now’s the time. If I'm missing something, speak up. I'm not here to throw my weight around or make reckless moves, I want what's best for this company. For all of us."
Mr. Sinclair shifts slightly, a flicker of approval brightening his usually stern gaze. Even Mr. Jameson, who’s been sizing me up since day one, leans back in his chair, something dangerously close to respect crossing his features.
But Jackson isn’t ready to let go of his grudge, his resentment lingering like smoke after a fire. He stares me down, eyes sharp with challenge. "You think you can just waltz in here and overhaul everything we've built? Like our methods suddenly need your magic touch?"
I don't blink, don’t back down. I meet his glare head-on. "The parts of this company that work? They work damn well. We promote from within, that’s a strength. Our relationships are strong because of the work you and your managers have done. Trust me, I value that. And I value you."
His spine stiffens just slightly, like he hadn’t expected acknowledgment. Good.
"But let's be honest," I continue smoothly, my tone steady and unyielding. "We can still do better. I'm not here to tear apart what you’ve built—I'm here to secure it. To cut waste and reinvest in our people. To create stability that outlasts any one of us."
Silence stretches, my words hanging heavy in the room.
Jackson lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. This time, though, he doesn't push back.
And that silence? That's my win.
As the meeting winds down, something Anna hinted at earlier gnaws at me, Mr. Ramon hasn't looked me in the eye once since I walked in wearing a skirt.
I don’t like that.
Not one damn bit.
It leaves me with more uncomfortable questions than answers, and as I gather my notes, already making a mental promise to circle back to that, I sense someone approaching.
Dean Jameson.
He’s younger than the rest of the board, early thirties at most, and carries himself like he’s painfully aware of his own appeal—sharp jaw, dark hair always styled a little too perfectly, and that quiet confidence of someone who’s calculated every move. But today, his expression is serious, his posture strictly business.
"You handled that beautifully," he says, leaning in slightly.
I glance up, thrown off guard. "What?"
"With Jackson." He tilts his head toward the empty seat where Jackson had stewed in his own bruised ego. "He can be... difficult."
Difficult. That’s one word for it.
Dean searches for the right words, his brows drawing together thoughtfully. "Jackson has a temper, and he loves to pretend he runs this place. The last CEO would’ve bulldozed right over him. Told him to sit down and shut up. But you..." His gaze skims me slowly, contemplatively. "You let him speak. Let him think he still had the upper hand."
His lips twitch in a subtle approval. "Smart move."
