Page 7 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

In the days after, I learned the worst of it—he’d taken out loans everywhere possible in the name of Cookie Madness and my name, too—including a loan from loan sharks.

Actualloan sharks.

Which is why I need this bonus so badly.

“What are these images of picnics?” Mr. Drummond barks. “How is that relevant to anything? I’m running a pharmaceutical gel business, not a Six Flags.”

Sasha turns to me. “Lizzie?”

I look at the screen, feeling his eyes on me, willing myself not to die of despair.

The picnic shot is one of my favorites. Manhattan skyline in the background. I love New York, and now, thanks to Mason, I have to move away to cheaper pastures.

As soon as I get the loan sharks off my back.

“People don’t care about what’s on their bandages,” I say. “It’s not the quality of Vossameer gel they care about—”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Drummond interrupts, indignant. “Of course they care about quality.”

“No,” I say, looking him right in the eye. “They care about another chance to be happy, to share meals with their favorite people, to watch them grow. To celebrate together. Lean on each other…” I almost want to cry, imagining all the things I’ll miss.

Mr. Drummond’s gaze gets even more intense, if that’s possible. It’s like he wants to bore a hole through my face.

“So actually,” I say, “these pictures are relevant. Because we’re not selling hemostatic gel. We’re selling another day. We’re selling possibilities. And giving medical personnel the power to deliver on that.”

The air seems to pulse between us.

“It’s how all other medical solutions companies position themselves,” I add, thinking I’ve made a compelling case.

Mr. Drummond tilts his head. “Do I look like I care what other medical companies are doing?”

I swallow. “Okay.”

“It’s a question,” he says. “Do I?”

My heart pounds in my ears. Really? He’s going to make me answer a rhetorical question? I suck in a breath. “I suppose you don’t.”

“You suppose right. I don’t care what other companies are doing. And all of this…children and their teddy bears and whatnot…” He gestures at the screen, seeming at a loss for words, so heinous is the sight, “it has no place on our website or our feeds or whatever...”

“That’s what I’ve been telling her,” Sasha says. “Families don’t belong on our site or on our feeds.”

I curl my hands more tightly around my file folders. “How about medical personnel? Or could we maybe spotlight the chemists?” There’s a whole army of chemists here, ready to do Mr. Drummond’s bidding, his personal fleet of nerdy minions. I’ve spoken to a few of them in the elevator. They talk about the amazing opportunity to work under him. The amazing learning opportunity. “We could have them talk about—”

“How about achieving our goals without a lot of fluff?” Mr. Drummond says, totally cutting me off.

There’s this weird silence where I think I could actually come to hate him. I’ve been working on letting go of my hatred of Mason with the help of a book entitledForgive and Be Free,but I might hate Mr. Drummond. I might even cherish hating him. Miraculously, I manage a smile. “Social media, too? No images of people?”

He raises an inky brow.

“Okay, so the assignment is to modernize and humanize Vossameer’s online presence,” I begin, gritting my teeth, “and I hear you saying, let’s do thatwithoutusing any humanswhatsoever.” Is he listening? Does he hear how messed up that is? It’s like saying, I’ll make some noise without using any sounds whatsoever.

But no. He grunts his approval.

“Very good, Mr. Drummond,” Sasha says.

I stare at one of his alphabet explosion boards, willing the meeting to be done.

“So do we have everything under control?” he asks.

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