Page 67 of Fractured (Not Quite a Billionaire)
I stared back at her and knew that I’d been wrong. The source of my success wasn’t fifty percent design and fifty percent data. The niggle at the back of my neck figured in there, too. Impossible to quantify, and impossible to ignore. And just now, it was tingling hard. Or maybe that was something else.
“Right,” I said, then told Henry, “We’ll talk in my office. One hour.”
He nodded, and I could read his expression.It’s going to mean overtime, and lots of it.And I looked back at him and sent my own message.I don’t care.We’re going to do it again until we get it right. We’re going to do it my way.
If you wanted to win big, you didn’t just look at the bottom line. You looked at the top line. You went for the big win, and you backed yourself to get it.
“Play hard or go home,” I said into the silence. “We’re going to play hard. Straight up the guts and over the line. Thank you all for your efforts. Meeting’s over.”
Hope
I couldn’t believe I’d said all that. Henry had been more than clear. “You’re not talking,” he’d said before the meeting. “You are the assistant. You are taking notes.”
I’d said, “I understand.” And what had I done? I’d talked. I’d done more than talk. I’dranted.
And, yes, I got that I’d probably be forgiven by Hemi, if not by anybody else. But even Hemi…
His expression while I’d spoken so out of turn, so inappropriately, against everybody else in the room, againsthim,hadn’t saidforgivenone little bit. And when I picked up my laptop and prepared to walk out with everybody else, he looked at me and said calmly, “Wait a minute, please, Hope.”
No choice. I had to set my computer back on the conference table, the ring on my finger flashing out a multi-carat message to my supposed colleagues as they filed out, barely glancing at me.Special privileges,it said, not to mentiongoing to get nailed hard on this table. Or maybe that was just the messageIgot.
You want to talk about tokens? You want to talk about nerves?
Hemi waited until Henry left, closing the door softly behind him. Then he just looked at me. I was standing, one hand on a chair back for support, because I was feeling a little dizzy. He was still sitting at the head of the table, still as stone in his black suit, all powerful shoulders and strong thighs, hard expression and hard muscle.
Motionless. Waiting.
“I know,” I finally said. “I was here to take minutes.”
“Oh,” he said, “isthatwhy.”
“But you asked me for my opinion,” I said. “You shouldn’t ask if you don’t want to hear.”
“No,” he said, and my heart just about stopped. “No,” he said again, “it was good, what you said.”
“Oh.” My knees were trembling some now.
“Take off your dress,” he said.
My mouth opened, and I didn’t move.
“Now,” he said.
“I…” I started to say, and stopped. Everybody else would be in the elevators. Talking about the meeting. Talking about me.
“Hope,” he said gently, “do I have to tell you what will happen to you if you don’t do what I say?”
All I wanted was to do exactly that. He was pure dark power, and I couldn’t resist him.
“No,” I finally said.
He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me as if I hadn’t spoken.
I was more than shaking now. I was weak. But I picked up my laptop and said, “You’re driving, and I’m drawing the line. That’s our agreement. Well, I’m drawing it now. No. I have no credibility. I need it. I’ll see you at seven.”
And I walked out.
I wanted to go straight back to my cube and have everybody see me do it, thirty seconds after they got downstairs themselves. Unfortunately, I was forced to change my plans.
