Page 9 of Savage Suit
Graham drank more of his martini and eyed me.
“Dorset signed a non-disclosure. If he reveals any trade secrets, his ass can be sued to hell and back.” Simple, on the surface.
“He should’ve had a non-compete clause in his contract, Noah.”
I scowled at Graham’s mild rebuke. “He did, but only for six months instead of the two years I insisted upon.” Hence, the head-rolling. Yet, I was angriest with myself. Because I slipped up and allowed men I believed trustworthy to oversee the creation of a limited edition perfume in honor of my mother, produced by the division that claimed her life. Now, I was scrambling to save the launch set to take place in a matter of months for a project in development for almost five years. Market oversaturation bred disloyalty. After tweaking the composition, Sauncier would releaseRéjane, Eau Fraiche, not the expensive parfum I intended. The smell-alike would be sold significantly cheaper.“My parfum launch is in jeopardy of not being released,” I admitted.
“I’ll need to rerun numbers. KMG has pumped millions into this project.”
I nodded, then detailed what went wrong. “Amage still intends to release the scent,” I finished.
Graham removed his glasses and set them on the table, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Claude’s work?”
Undoubtedly. Claude Amage and I had a long, bitter history, so everything had to be perfect for this project. “I’ve tried meeting with the Amage brothers, but they are waiting on Claude.” I sighed, torn between desire for revenge, fury, and sheer fucking fatigue. Tasked with hiding my mother’s entire story from the world, and my siblings, exhausted me. “I’m searching for an account manager answerable only to me. He will update the packaging and create a new marketing campaign.”
“He?” Graham echoed with disapproval.
I ignored him. “I can’t have any other surprises disrupting my plans.”
He didn’t press the issue. “Have you talked to your legal department about your proprietary rights?”
“We decided against legal protections due to the perfume’s short on-sale period.” My father still headed the corporation when I presented the idea. He’d set terms I couldn’t alter when I took over a year later upon his death.
“Your private investments are doing well. Keegan Enterprises saw a thirty percent growth rate last year, despite market volatility and the Fed’s talk of raising interest rates faster than predicted. The company’s on track for an even bigger growth by year’s end.”
His words pleased me, so I forged ahead. “On New Year’s Day, my mother will have been dead for twenty years. I must get my plans back on track, despite Dorset and Sauncier.” My calm voice and steady demeanor belied my heartache, fueled by grief never fully healed.
“Shit, man. Twenty years? It’s been that long?”
Graham was only seventeen when his mother died of cancer.
I nodded. “Yeah. I can’t believe it either.”
I was scheduled to go on the trip with my mother but had gotten sick. I was rushed to the hospital with a high fever. To be at my bedside, she’d cut her trip short. Instead…
I was twelve when she died, so I’d been without her most of my life. I would never get over losing her. Countless sleepless nights were spent thinking about her. Her absence tore me to shreds with each accomplishment, deep down, where no one could glimpse. My family’s dysfunction worsened those feelings. Mother had been our glue, and at her death, everything fell apart.
Talking about her opened too many wounds. After a heartbeat of pain-filled silence, I grabbed my menu, and Graham followed suit. Once we made our selections, I beckoned Alf.
“Are you two ready to order?” he asked, his informal manner appreciated.
Call me sentimental, yet he reminded me of my mother’s love for Christmas. I admitted how I missed her and how consumed with guilt I continued to be. If I hadn’t been ill…if I had gone with her as initially planned…if she had survived…
Her death ruined our family, devastated my father.
Destroyed me.
“Thank you, Alf,” Graham said. “I’d like the salmon en papillote with asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Morgan.” Alf jotted Graham’s order and turned to me. “Mr. Keegan?”
“I’ll have the Bouillabaisse with a side of garlic bread.” Just as the words left my mouth, my stomach rumbled.
“Coming right up.”
“How’s the family?” I asked after Alf rushed away.
“Soraya is busy planning Lorenzo’s birthday party. He’s turning five next month.”
