by Sara Celi
I gulped. I didn’t want to ask, but I had to know. “W-what do you need to tell me?”
“It’s about Dad’s estate. And the family business.”
I shrugged. So far, no major landmines. But even I knew landmines were hidden, deadly objects… “Okay?” I replied, drawing the word out. “So, what about it? Are we bringing in record-breaking profits again? I hardly think this is the way to tell me. Couldn’t you have simply—”
“Please, Ainsley. I need you to listen to me.” Ashton’s voice sounded flat but pleading. “This is important. You’ve got to focus.”
“On what?”
“This is about the company. And it’s critical.”
Just over two years earlier, our father had died of a massive brain aneurism. When he didn’t show up for work at Ross Publishing, the CFO of our company contacted our family’s longtime housekeeper, who found him dead on the master bathroom floor. Later, the coroner said he likely hadn’t felt any pain, and that he’d been alive one minute, then dead the next.
But knowing my father hadn’t suffered much didn’t provide me comfort at all, and I’d taken his death harder than Ashton. I’d solved this by spending as much time as possible in South Florida, a place where I was on a sort of permanent vacation. Working on the intricate details of the business was the last thing I wanted to do.
I sighed. “Fine. I’m all ears.”
“We’re not okay, Ainsley,” Ashton said. “In fact, we’re not solvent.”
I sat back in the seat and let the firm length of it support my aching spine and twitching muscles. “What do you mean, ‘not solvent?’”
“If nothing changes, the company is going to have to file for bankruptcy soon. Very soon.” The words exited Ashton’s mouth like a barrage of bullets. “We can’t keep going on like this. We’re finished. Done. It’s over.”
“What?” My voice rose, and my mind raced for answers, solutions. “No way. You must be wrong. You’ve made a mistake somewhere.”
“No, Ainsley. I assure you, this is not an error. This is our new reality.”
He couldn’t be saying that. Not now. The company was fine. Better than that, it was on a rocket ship to planet success. Just three years ago, Bloomberg had called Ross Publishing the most innovative publishing company in the US. We’d done well with ebooks, digital marketing, and social media. We had millions of subscribers to our monthly mailing lists, and our clients hit the top bestseller lists with a staggering regularity. Ross Publishing was the future of books, not the past.
Right?
“Whatever. You’re joking,” I insisted, clenching my fist and shaking my head. “Come on, out with it. I know that you’ve been mad because I said I didn’t want to reclaim a seat on the board. I just think that you’re better at—”
“I wish this was a joke,” Ashton muttered. “But it isn’t. We’re bankrupt. In fact, it’s worse than that.”
Bankruptcy? What could be worse than bankruptcy? My stomach lurched. I didn’t like my fun-loving sibling’s tone of voice. Whenever he sounded serious, I could guarantee we were in for it.
“Okay,” I whispered. “How bad is it?”
“About two months ago, I infused the company with money from the trust,” he said after a pause. “And at that point, the trust had thirty-five million left in it.”
Had? Had thirty-five million?
My stomach twisted and turned again. I thought for a moment I might throw up the cocktails and oysters I’d just eaten during the happy hour. “How much cash did you loan the company?”
“Thirty million.” His voice broke. “We have five million left, and that’s not enough to cover all of the expenses. We’ll be out of money by the end of the quarter, Ainsley. Probably sooner than that, if we keep hemorrhaging cash. We’re finished.”
I couldn’t come close to processing what Ashton had just said. Not while sitting in the car on a side street in Palm Beach, in the middle of paradise, with dozens of palm trees overhead and the salty smell of the ocean in the air. It simply didn’t feel real. Didn’t feel possible. And it didn’t add up, either.
Where had we gone wrong? How in the hell had this happened?
“That was Dad’s money,” I finally said, as a small twinge of guilt began to plague me. “Dad’s life savings. Everything he worked for in life. All the sacrifices he made.”
“I know. You don’t have to remind me, Ainsley. I’ve never forgotten.”
Our whole lives, Ashton and I had grown up in the shadow of my father’s spectacular business story, one that could have been written in a Disney movie. Dad had inherited a small printing company in Chicago, turned it into the largest in the Midwest, and then set his sights on New York City. After first buying New York City Now magazine, he’d expanded into publishing and created the Ross Publishing conglomerate. Soon, he’d mixed and mingled with the city’s most well-heeled crowd, and met our mother, Dina DeFitz, the daughter of a Swiss count and one of Manhattan’s most celebrated socialites. Dina had given my father, George Ross, a respectability he couldn’t capture on his own. She’d helped him enter some of the city’s most exclusive circles, and she’d never let him forget that. Even after their divorce.
I sucked in a large breath. “So, you’re telling me that we’re basically destitute.” Saying this didn’t make it feel any better.
“Penniless after the end of this year.”
“Something like that.”
“How could you make a projection like that? It’s January. Anything could happen in this next year.”
“We’ve run about 300 different forecasting models. They all say the same thing.” He sighed. “And right now, we don’t have many options.”
I massaged my left temple, fighting the dull thudding of an oncoming headache. “Options? You sound so flippant about it. Clinical. Like you don’t care.”
“I do care Ainsley.” His voice hardened. “I’ve been trying to fix this for the last few months and nothing has worked. I don’t see any way out of it. When Dad died, the company was in worst shape than he wanted to admit. I tried to repair it, but this is our new reality.”
I huffed.
“I could have used your help,” my brother accused through what sounded like gritted teeth. “It would have been nice to have you be a part of the process, and all the decision making with—”
“You’re the one with the MBA from Wharton, not me. And I remember plenty of times when you reminded me of that. Held it over me like a carrot I could never reach. You didn’t ask for my advice. Not once.”
He cleared his throat. “Okay. That’s fair. I’ve been a jerk to you sometimes in the past. But now I need you to step up, okay? I need your input here.”
I blew some air through my front teeth. “And I was embarrassed about a stupid American Express charge. I was sitting in the bar earlier thinking that the credit-card company had screwed up on their end. Little did I know, right?”
Part of me wanted to ask Ashton about the state of my trust fund, as well, but I decided against it. I couldn’t bear to hear what I knew would almost certainly be bad news about that, too. No, I’d save that for later, for the moment when I was convinced that we didn’t have a way to save the company. There had to be something we could do, and whatever it was, I’d make sure that we’d do it.
“Well, it got your attention. I’d say that tactic did its job.”
“Yes, it did,” I said, my thoughts still racing. Numbers I’d never paid attention to before had taken on a new meaning in the span of less than fifteen minutes. How much did my expenses cost each month? What could I cut? What could we change? What if…
Ashton cleared his throat. “Listen we—”
“Does Mom know about this?” I asked, feeling anger boiling in my blood. “No, don’t answer that question. I’m sure she does. In fact, I’m sure that I’m basically the last to know, aren’t I?”
His silence gave me all the confirmation I needed.
“What are we going to do?” I demanded to know on
a long exhale, as the weight of what we were facing hit me again.
“We’re going to have to take some serious measures, Ainsley.”
He was right. We needed a miracle. But I had no idea where we’d find one.
“I know that you haven’t wanted to run the business,” Ashton said after a long moment of silence. “You’ve had… your fun in Florida, and I’ve indulged you in that. I’ve let you do whatever you please. But that’s over, Ainsley. That must change. Now.”
I swallowed back a strange mixture of guilt and defiance and simply asked what I knew should be asked. “How?”
“It’s time for you to step back in and make your place count in this family.”
My mouth had turned drier than the Sahara Desert. The authoritative way he said this told me that he had a plan, and I wouldn’t necessarily like it. Or have any say in it. “How do you propose we do that?”
“I need you to come to New York,” he said.
“You can’t tell me now, over the phone? I’m sitting right here as your captive audience, Ashton. Just tell me what’s on your mind.”
“No, this won’t work over the phone. I want to talk about this in person. I booked you on tomorrow’s 9:15 flight.”
“That soon?”
“Yes. I don’t care that it’s the end of the week. I need you here. It’s a commercial plane, but that’s all I can send your way right now. Will you make it?”
I sighed. “Yes. Fine. I’ll come.”
As if I would have given any other response.
Flight 4503 with direct service from Palm Beach International Airport to JFK International landed just after noon the following day. I spent most of the flight staring at the final hairs of the balding man in front of me, a man who’d slept almost the whole way and snored loud enough to be heard throughout most of the main cabin.
Coach class sucked. Royally. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d flown it.
As we shuffled off the jet, I massaged my neck and rolled my shoulders a few times. I was cranky, irritable, and worried. I sent my brother a text message and grabbed a taxi, directing the driver to 957 Park Avenue, the building my family had called home for two generations. As we approached the city, I had to bite back the desire to throw up in the back of the cab.
Life was changing, right in front of me. Whatever I had known of New York would never be the same. Not if we lost everything.
No, that can’t happen. We will fix this. We must.
To distract myself from all the bad news swirling around me, I took a few selfies from the back of the taxi, making sure that I angled my phone so that the light stroked my jaw and presented me in the best way. After twenty or so tries, I found a profile shot that would suffice, which I uploaded to my profile with a snappy caption and a few hashtags. In the last half-day or so, I hadn’t uploaded anything to my social media accounts. Not good. I needed to keep up the pretense that everything was fine, and that my life continued just as I had cultivated online—a glamorous array of jet-setting vacations, fashion posts, and photos with friends at parties and expensive restaurants. I didn’t want anyone thinking something was “going on” based on my lack of recent posts.
I locked the phone, then tried to focus on the city streets as they passed by outside the passenger window. That lasted about two minutes before I opened the device again and checked the number of likes on the post. Seventy-five so far. Not bad.
When we arrived at 957 Park, I dropped my case in the apartment I kept on the fourth floor of the forty-five-story skyscraper, freshened up a bit, and took the elevator to the top level.
Just keep your cool, Ainsley…
For as long as I could remember, Dad had maintained the forty-fourth and forty-fifth levels as his fiefdom. Other tenants took up office space on the lesser floors, but the top two had his signature all over them. He had lived in a 25,000-square-foot bachelor pad on the forty-fourth floor and used the forty-fifth as the home for Ross Publishing. The rest of the building housed a smattering of financial firms, real estate agents, luxury condos, and premium shopping, all of which paid rent to my family’s trust. Losing the empire meant losing that income, too.
I didn’t want to let myself focus on that. We’d find a way out of this mess. The empire would not fall. Not if I could help it.
Ashton waited for me in the lobby just off the elevator entrance, where he leaned against the long, white, marble reception desk. He’d lost weight, and dark circles highlighted his bulging brown eyes. His black suit hung lose on him, appearing two sizes too big. Behind him, large iron letters spelled out “Ross Publishing and Holdings” across a marble paneled wall.
But maybe not for much longer…
“How are you?” I managed, even though I was asking a question that didn’t need to be answered. I knew how he was doing. Terrible. Guilt nagged at me; I should have helped him more. Shouldn’t have left it all to him. “I feel so awful about this. And you look—”
“I’m okay.” He pulled me into a hug, and the musky smell of his cologne filled my nostrils. Dad had worn the same scent, and the memory of it tugged at my heart. “Thanks for coming.”
“Didn’t have much choice, did I?” I moved away from his embrace and tried to suppress the frustration pulsing through my veins. “We’ll figure this out. There must be an answer to this problem. We just haven’t found it.” I turned to the receptionist. “How have you been?”
“Well, things are—” She braced her hand on the desk. “I mean…”
“Brenda has been very helpful in this process.” He shot her a knowing look and instructed me to follow him down the hallway toward the conference room.
I thanked Brenda for all her assistance and followed him down the long corridor, which had offices on one side, and large windows on the other that showed off the Manhattan skyline. My father had once called the property his greatest triumph.
When we got to the conference room door, he paused. “Ainsley, I need you to know that I realize this isn’t easy for you.” Ashton put his icy hand on my arm. “I know this is all a shock. But I’m here for you. I’m right next to you. We’re family.”
“Of course, we are.”
“We’re in this together—no matter what happens next.”
“I know. You don’t have to keep reminding me. Dad always told us that—he drilled it into us. Family first.”
“And everything that I do, I’m doing for the good of this family.” His grip tightened, making me think of cold steel. “I need you to promise me that you won’t forget that.”
I searched his face. Why was he saying this? What was prompting this intensity? This wasn’t like Ashton at all. He was usually a lot more reserved, stoic even. At that moment, though, he sounded desperate. Pleading. Begging.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t forget it.”
“Good.” Ashton took a deep breath and straightened his slumping shoulders. “Here we go.”
He pushed open the wide door. The room behind it held a large oak conference table with seating for sixteen, a credenza laden with my father’s favorite barware, and a large Andy Warhol print on the far wall.
And a man I hadn’t laid eyes on in quite a while.
“Oh, my god,” I said to Ashton, not bothering to hide the disbelief in my voice. “What is he doing here?”
My breath caught in the back of my throat, and a mix of emotions crashed through me—shock, disgust, distrust, and something else—something that I didn’t want to face. All I knew was that the man in front of me was the last person I expected to find in the conference room that day.
I narrowed my eyes at Ashton. “What is this? What’s going on here?”
“Pleased to see you, too,” Trevor McNamara said after he stood from the far end of the conference table. He buttoned his navy-blue jacket, smoothed it, and made his way across the room. “You look beautiful, as always.”
He extended a hand.
I didn’t take it. Instead, I whirled around. “Ashto
n, why the hell is Trevor McNamara sitting in Dad’s conference room on a Friday afternoon?”
“Ainsley, it’s—”
“Where are you trying to go with this? Dad hated his family. Hated. You know that.”
I sneered at Trevor as all the little comments I’d heard my father make about the McNamaras came back to me. Trevor’s father, Michael, had once been my father’s biggest competitor in New York, a man who raced through real estate deals and acquisitions almost as fast as Dad did. They’d started out as best friends at the University of Pennsylvania, but the friendship turned when I was twelve, and a big development they’d worked on together went south. The ugly spit-balling played out in the city tabloids, and my dad’s divorce from mom provided plenty of salacious details to keep the gossips talking.
After that, Dad and Michael spent most of the next two decades playing chess with companies. For a while, Dad had a bigger fortune, and a wider portfolio. But Michael had been ruthless and gathered his own fiefdom of crown jewels. He even paid four hundred million for a building valued at half as much, just so that he could say he owned 543 Madison Avenue, one of New York’s toniest addresses.
“If you think you’re going to take over what is left of my dad’s legacy, you’re wrong,” I said, trying to keep my tone as even as possible. Anger boiled in my veins. This was not the solution we needed.
“Ainsley, Trevor, just… Let’s take a seat, okay?” Ashton gestured at the leather chairs that circled the table. “Please.” He pulled one away from its resting spot. “Have a seat and let’s talk.”
I scowled at Trevor. “No. I don’t want to talk to him. Certainly not like this.”
“You don’t have to talk to me like I’m not here.” One side of Trevor’s mouth lifted into a half-smile. “Turns out you need me more than you think you do.”
He was enjoying this. What an asshole. Some things hadn’t changed. People had reputations for a reason, and Trevor McNamara could have been his father’s double.
I crossed my arms, considering a million ways I could quickly dismiss Trevor. “We don’t need someone like you. We never have. You’re nothing but a—”
