Page 13 of Made for You
For a long moment, no one said anything. Then Colt spoke, his voice quiet but certain. “I wish I had better news for you, brother, but she told you what she wanted, and now you have to respect it.”
I nodded, even though I hated that he was right. I wasn’t a sit-back-and-see kind of guy. If there was a problem, I found the solution. If something needed fixing, I fixed it. Something wasn’t right about Siena’s reaction to seeing me again, and I chafed at knowing I couldn’t get to the bottom of that.
I pressed the heel of my palm to my chest and rubbed like I could smooth out the ache lodged beneath my sternum. “Just wish I knew what the hell went wrong.”
Colt’s gaze dropped forward with a slight shake of his head. His voice was low when he said, “Sometimes you don’t get answers, man. Doesn’t make your feelings any less real.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The ache in my chest felt too heavy, too raw.
CHAPTER FOUR
My father’svoice was unmistakably displeased as it came through my speakers. “You’re telling me we don’t have a full kitchen staff three months out from launch?”
“Not entirely, sir. No,” Claude Dupont, Senior Vice President of Human Resources for the Bellrose Group—the luxury hotel chain my grandfather had founded nearly a century ago—answered from his corner square on the video feed. “We’ve got line cooks locked in and an executive and sous chef under contract, but we’re still without a pastry chef or front-of-house manager. We’re working to fill in the gaps as quickly as possible.”
“And failing,” my older brother Bryce muttered, leaning back in his chair. “So much for your big pitch about operational readiness, Siena.”
I locked my jaw, my molars grinding together as the familiar zing of annoyance flared. Still, I made sure not to let them see it, even as heat prickled beneath my collar. I smoothed my hands over my thighs beneath my desk and kept my tone calm and professional when I spoke. “The issue isn’t operational readiness—it’s housing. The local market can’t absorb our staffing needs. If you’d read the report I sent two weeks ago, you’d know that’s aregionalchallenge, not an internal oversight.”
My oldest brother, Connor, always quick to cut me down, snorted. “You’d think the Vice President of Expansion and Development would’ve considered that during site selection.”
I curled my hands into fists on top of my thighs, my nails no doubt leaving little half moons embedded in my skin, but I didn’t rise to Connor’s bait. This was his favorite game—twist the situation to make me look bad in front of our father, then act like he was only doing his due diligence.
“Wedidaccount for housing,” I said evenly. “But the copper mine’s unexpected expansion triggered a labor surge we couldn’t have predicted. As a result, rental inventory at a certain price point dried up in under six weeks. It’s a real estate bottleneck, not a planning failure.”
“Oh, sure. Blame the miners.” He rolled his eyes, his voice full of condescension. “Why take responsibility for dropping the ball when you’ve got a convenient excuse?”
“Connor,” our father cut in sharply. “That’s enough.” He turned his attention to me, his expression softening. “What do you need, Siena?”
His show of support was both a balm and a blade—comforting in the moment, but dangerous in the long term. Imight feel better now, but I’d pay for it later. My half-brothers would make sure of that.
I cleared my throat and sat up straighter. “Bellrose should offer a housing stipend for eight staff members or reopen discussion around temporary onsite quarters. I’d also like permission to increase the signing bonuses for both the pastry chef and sous chef positions. If we don’t act now, the new luxury ski resort in Big Sky will definitely poach them.”
My father rubbed his chin, visibly considering my proposal. “Send me the numbers. I’ll review them with Claude and Shirley this afternoon.”
Connor leaned forward, his eyes narrowed and lips curled in disbelief. “You’re not seriously?—”
“We’ll discuss it offline,” our father said, his tone brooking no argument. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I have another meeting to get to.” He jabbed a button on his computer, and the video feed cut out. And then, with a tap of a button, his square vanished from the screen.
The others followed—one by one—until I was left alone with my reflection in the now-black monitor.
I sat at my desk for a long moment, the silence pressing in on me. Outside, the wind whistled across the ridge. My temples throbbed. I pulled off my glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off the migraine I felt gathering like a storm behind my eyes as I replayed the last twenty minutes on a loop in my head.
I hated asking for my father’s help, but I didn’t know how else to keep this launch from sliding off the rails. More than any project in our portfolio I’d been a part of, The Alderwood at Bridger Fallshadto succeed. If it didn’t, I didn’t know what I’d do.
I hadn’t clawed my way to this position to become a footnote in my brothers’ legacy. I’d bled for Bellrose—in some cases, quiteliterally. And now, the weight of proving I deserved to become CEO when my father, the irreplaceable Richard Bellrose, retired in a couple of years was so heavy that I sometimes felt the pressure might actually be too much to bear.
Especially since no matter how hard I worked, how many deals I closed, or how often my father told me he believed in me, it wasn’t just his decision. The board would have final say. And if my half-brothers had anything to do with it, that vote would never swing my way if I failed here.
They’d been rooting for my failure ever since the ink dried on my first promotion. Every slip in schedule, every minor delay, was ammunition in the war they’d declared on me from the beginning of my tenure with our father’s company.
I slumped back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath me as another gust of wind rattled the windowpane behind me, sounding like it might crack under the pressure.
Frankly, it sounded like I felt.
I sat there for a long time, staring at nothing and trying to convince myself that I was fine. That I could make this work. That I had to.
But the truth was, I was tired—the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from constantly defending my right to be here. From having to prove—over and over and over again—that I belonged.
