Page 30 of Fair Trade
He waves my rage away like it’s something he’s become accustomed to. “And the shoes. Can I get an answer on where the hell those came from and why you aren’t wearing your usual dagger-like heels?” He rubs his chest absentmindedly, and I think back to when I shoved my heeled foot into it. “I have my suspicions, but I’d like to hear directly from you.”
I cross my arms over my chest as I lean on the table. “Humor me.”
He waves his hand up and down my body. “It makes you look shorter, at least shorter than the men who attended this meeting.” He studies my face as he continues. “Maybe in an attempt to seem, what? Less threatening? Docile, even?” He huffs out a dry laugh. “Good luck with that, by the way. Everyone saw how you stared me down, the damn owner of this team, without breaking a sweat. So I don’t think that shtick is fooling anyone, sweetheart.”
“Enough with the names.” And with perceiving me way too clearly.
He puts his hands up as he nods. “My apologies. You’re right. We are in our workplace. Must keep up professional attitudes and all that.” He pauses. “But you never stopped wearing heels around me. Care to at least answer that?”
I must be coming down from the adrenaline rush. There is no other way to explain why I decide to answer him with the truth. “I think it’s safe to say that we both know you’re not like most men who work here.”
“I’m not like most men. Period.”
“Ah, yes. The ego stroke that you most definitely did not need.” I push my shoulder past him as I make my way to the door.
“One last thing, Luisa.”
I stop and don’t know whether to groan or smile at how hard he’s working to keep me in this room. I turn to face him. “Final question, and then I must get back to work, Mr. Stonehaven.” I sigh, acting like it’s a hardship to be in his presence.
He ignores my use of his last name as his eyes turn serious. “Next time someone is sitting in your seat, you tell them to get the fuck out. Don’t you dare let anyone question your rightful place or be afraid to put them in theirs.” Confused, I look overat the table. He points to the seat he occupied at the head of the table. “Including me.”
He grabs his things as I stay rooted in place, only stopping momentarily by my side before he heads out. “Especially me.”
fourteen
It’s another lonely night,and I’m bored out of my mind in my new home that feels more like a TV show set.
I purchased this lovely brownstone when I realized a move to New York City would no longer be avoidable. I was hoping an actual home in the Upper West Side instead of a downtown apartment in a skyscraper would help bring in some warmth into my surroundings, given that the spaces I usually reside in tend to feel cold and sterile.
Maybe I overcorrected by buying a home clearly meant for a family that decorates for the holidays and share meals with their parents instead of communicating via their attorneys.
But there was something about this space that made me feel like I had some semblance of control of my future, even as my dead grandfather pulled the strings from beyond the grave.
This was not supposed to happen.
I was not supposed to lose.
And yet, the look in my father’s eyes when he realized he had once again managed to break through my fortified armor andhurt me in the only way he knew how, proved how stupid I had been to make a bet with something that was not solely mine to risk in the first place.
And now I’m paying the price.
Alone in some sitcom house that’s only missing the chorus of laughter and applause from the hidden audience.
At this point in the night, I’ve given up on trying to watch TV or read a book. My mind seems much too loud to allow it.
So I resign myself to taking up residence in my office instead. It’s well after midnight in the UK, but if I fire off a few emails now, my team abroad can tackle their tasks while I’m sleeping here on the East Coast.
I’m usually most comfortable in a tailored suit while tending to business, but here in my home office, you will never catch me in one. Instead, I opt for dark sweatpants and don’t even bother with a shirt.
I pour myself a glass of red wine from my bar cart, a cheap Cabernet Sauvignon that used to be my mother’s favorite, and settle into my chair.
A few emails in, I start to grow frustrated with my lack of focus. I can usually run my media company in my sleep. That’s exactly how it goes since moving back to the states, yet I find myself growing bored with the same song and dance.
I created Stonehaven Media with my bare hands. Many think that I got help from my father, who comes from old money, but quite frankly, those people would be dead wrong.
In order to ask for help from your father, you would first have to know he existed. Which would be hard to do, since I grew up thinking my dad was either a deadbeat or dead. My mother raised me on her own, struggled with every dirty penny to make sure I was well taken care of as she climbed her way toward being a respected barrister.
I knew my mother was brilliant. I could see it with my own two eyes as she studied cases at the dinner table while I worked on my schoolwork. Her work ethic was only matched by her devotion to being an amazing parent to me.
