Page 2 of Cruel Master
When Brightscape Games bought my company, the deal included my building, even though they have their own skyscraper in New York. I assumed they’d sell it, but they decided to keep it as a satellite office, and I swear Brad Grayson, asshole that he is, set himself up here in my old office just to piss me off.
Our meeting should have started thirty minutes ago. Making me wait in my own waiting room is a sad little power play, the sort of shit I’ve come to expect from him. Even the changes he’s made to the space feel designed to aggravate me.
Gone is the hand-drawn artwork showing the evolution of my characters from scribbled concepts into the finished articles I poured my soul into. Gone is the quirky antique furniture.Now it's as clinical and dull as a dentist’s waiting room. And this meeting is going to be about as much fun as a root canal.
The door opens, and his secretary waves me in. A different woman from the last time. I've heard whispers that Brad is a nightmare to his underlings, the sort to throw potted plants around and scream at people in front of their colleagues.
I pass through the secretary's neat office and wait as she opens Brad's door a crack. He snaps, “She can come in.”
Who'sshe, the cat's fucking mother?
Gran had a way with words. I wish she was coming to this meeting. One look at her wooden spoon, and Brad Grayson would wet his pants.
The office is as boring as the waiting room, but a couple of pictures of Brad on the golf course with smug, sweaty men make it even worse. When I enter, he does that stupid thing where he pretends to be writing, as if he wants me to stand awkwardly in the doorway.
Not today. I ignore the pretense and park myself in the seat opposite. “Brad. Good morning.”
His lips purse, and he writes a few more sentences, pen scratching louder than it has any right to, meeting my gaze. His look reminds me of the old-school mega-preachers you see on TV. Orange tan, smooth skin, all housed in a face made weird by one too many plastic surgeries. I swear his wavy blond hair wouldn’t move in a hurricane.
His glaring veneers glint as he gives me a phony smile. “Juliet. Lovely to see you. What can I do for you?”
Calm.
I plaster on a fake smile to match his. “Nice to see you too, Brad. I’ve just received some footage from the new game, and I’m disturbed by the content. I’m hoping it’s a mistake.”
It’s not a mistake, and we both know it. Brad, however, doesn’t miss a beat. His brow creases. “I received the same footage myself just this morning. It all looked great to me. Perhaps you received a corrupted file?”
My hands clench into fists by my sides, away from his eyeline. “The file wasn’t the issue. It’s the content. It’s nothing like we discussed, and it doesn’t fit with the history of the game or the characters. And…” I take a deep breath, swallow what I really want to say, and settle for, “It’s revolting.”
“Revolting? That’s a strong word, Juliet.” Brad’s pleasant mask is still in place, but there’s tension in his voice that wasn’t there a moment ago. “We’re very proud of the direction we’re taking with it. What seems to be the issue?”
I pull out my laptop in answer and open it to the file I prepared for the meeting. I spin it so Brad can see and scroll through the images in silence. Stills from the new game Brightscape is creating. Just looking at them puts my stomach in a vice, twisting it with brutal force.
When Brightscape offered me ten million for my company, I hesitated even though the money offered me freedom from the mountain of debt I’d struggled with since college. But the Brightscape executives promised they’d treat my IP with respect and bring my vision to millions.
Saldar’s Curse, the game I spent eight years creating, is my baby. And Brightscape is throwing it into a blender.
The still images from Brightscape’s game are sickening schlock horror—torture porn of the worse kind.
“This. This is the issue.” I jab a finger at the screen.
Don’t swear. Keep your tone level. First to raise their voice loses.
I’ve watched plenty of podcasts on how to win in negotiations, and they all emphasize keeping calm. But I flick to the next scene, see a picture of Saldar—mySaldar—stabbing a knife intoa screaming woman’s guts, and my blood rushes fast enough to drown out all the sensible words.
“Look at this shit! What dumb teenage asshole came up with this bollocks? Who signed off on this? I certainly fucking didn’t.”
So much for keeping calm.
Brad holds his hands out, ugly varsity ring glinting. “Look. There’s no need to get all emotional. We can discuss this like adults.”
Soothing. Patronizing. I’m playing right into his hands.
I take a deep breath and force my voice lower, tearing my gaze from the screen. I can’t stay calm while I’m looking at those pictures. Brad’s smug, plastic face isn’t much of an improvement, but it’s the best of two bad options.
“This”—I wave at the screen without looking at it—“is unacceptable. You’re destroying my brand. Fans of the game will hate this. What are you hoping to get out of it? I won’t have my name associated with this crap.”
Brad leans back in his chair and studies me, blue eyes sharp. There’s a dark edge beneath his tacky smile, and I catch him narrowing his eyes, assessing me. Something chilly runs up my spine.
