Page 18 of Love Is an Art
“That’s exactly why your plaintiff wrote this email to his friend, encouraging him to invest in the North American Capital Management Fund. He wrote: ‘It may seem risky, but don’t forget—no risk, no return,’” I say, pushing a copy of the email across the table to them. “Not to mention the plaintiff created a Facebook post saying the same thing.” I hand over my screenshot of that.
The senior partner’s face falls. The three of them huddle to look at the two documents.
There’s nothing like thatgotchamoment.
But I keep my face blank and lean back in my chair. As does Paul.
The senior partner looks up. “We’ll talk to our clients and get back to you.”
I stand. “Please do.”
They agreed to settle. It’s a huge win for our client, especially because of Zeke’s email questioning whether the investment was too risky. To be fair to him, a fund managershouldask those questions. And given that the investment was within the risk parameters disclosed, it shouldn’t be considered a harmful email. But you never know how a jury will interpret it, especially with whatever negative spin a plaintiff’s attorney glosses on it.
And it’s a huge win for me and my quest to merit the extraordinary bonus.
I’m in shock because I wouldn’t have been quite as inspired to seek a settlement if I hadn’t wanted to stop representing Capital Management before I went on a date with Zeke.
It’s the first time I’ve ever felt that electric spark with someone. If I’m honest, I thought that phrase in romance novels was exaggerated. And I know he seems to hate lawyers, but it’s not like that should be a deal breaker. Who picks their partner based on their career? That’s ridiculous.
I’ll explain in person that I’m not an artist once I figure out how he knows Jurgen. I only said that because Scammer Guy was next to me. He should understand.
Chapter five
Zeke
IknockonBrooke’sdoor. This lawsuit is a frickin’ headache. I should be spending this time deciphering financials and visiting companies to check them out as potential investments for either my North American Fund or for the new venture capital portfolio we’re developing. There’s enough on my plate with trying to keep two bosses happy. Or rather, impress Charles and keep Arthur content—he’s never going to be happy—so he doesn’t make my life complete hell. Then Charles can decide he needs mesolelyon the venture capital side of Capital’s businesses, and I can say goodbye to Arthur. Instead, my days are filled with meetings with legal about millions of emails written months ago that I don’t recall. I don’t write them to be parsed word by word.
Charles still hasn’t replied to my proposal to include Comidas en Canasta, a company that provides a food delivery app in Mexico City, as one of the investments in our next venture capital portfolio. Last week’s visit to their headquarters convinced me. I’ll stop by his office after this meeting and follow up. Unless this “interrogation” session runs late into the night. Like the last few times.
“Come in,” Brooke says.
“Thanks again for warning me about Arthur holding that meeting without me.” I close the door behind me.
She narrows her eyes at me. “It was weird that both you and Winthrop recommended including that up-and-coming Canadian bank in the North American Fund.”
I shake my head. “I guess we both read the data the same way.”
Do I believe that? No. Arthur must have told Winthrop I was crunching the numbers on that bank. It’s small and not likely to be on anyone’s radar. Except I’d been in Canada looking at another company for the North American Fund, and the guys I met had been discussing the bank’s latest marketing campaign and its subsequent increase in market share. I’d immediately emailed my analysis to Arthur and my junior associate, Ming. But if Brooke hadn’t told me about the meeting, Winthrop, with his bow tie, would have been the one recommending the bank as an investment and taking the credit.
I sit in the chair in front of Brooke’s desk. A stack of papers rests on a credenza by the window, but her desk is clear. Not even a folder. That doesn’t seem good. At least with a pile of email printouts, there’s an end in sight.
“The lawsuit settled,” she says.
I start. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. You can thank our outside counsel.”
“But last time, you said my email about the risk profile was going to hurt us.”
Brooke shrugs. “They had worse documents. And our outside lawyer showed them those, and that was enough to convince them they didn’t want to fight us in court.”
Unbelievable. I can breathe again. I lean back in the chair.
Ben knocks on the door and enters. “Lunch? Oh, you’re meeting with this guy. Brooke should label that chair with your name. You’re here every time I come by. You’re lucky I’m not a jealous guy.”
“It’s all yours.” I stand and wave toward the chair. The office is narrow, about eight feet by twelve feet.
“His case just settled,” Brooke says.
