Hearing Michael’s name made me want to spit nails. In an instant, I thought of Ignacio and Laila and the fact that Ignacio had yet to respond to my text.
Still...
I couldn’t pull my eyes off Brenneman’s. He hadn’t been on the Board of Directors for as long as Brockton or Max had been. In fact, he was the newest member, having been assigned a position only three years ago. He was always quiet, never saying much, but when he’d pumped a cool three million into Hamilton Associates, he’d earned his right to sit at the table. Even if he didn’t say much, his vote was worth more than most.
My eyes narrowed, and my jaw twitched. “What does Michael Sawyer have to do with anything?” I tried to quell the inferno generating in my chest.
Brenneman released a hefty sigh and Max rubbed the tip of his nose. The other men shifted in their seats.
I looked around the room until my eyes reconnected with Brenneman’s.
“Three months ago, you turned down a business proposal from a company called Janus,” he said.
“I didn’t believe in their product.”
“Four months ago, it was a firm called Propel.”
“They didn’t have a clear vision.”
Brenneman pressed his lips together. “And now it’s Af-Tech.” He tipped his head to the side. “Each of those clients took their business to Sawyer and he took them on. I had a peek of their portfolios. I’ve also been watching them on the stock market. They’re doing very well. In fact, Sawyer has effectively added them to his ever-expanding list of success stories. “
My jaw cinched. “Get to the point...”
“The point is, last week Sawyer approached this board with an interesting proposition.”
A red veil fell over my eyes. Rage forced my mouth open, but I snapped it closed. I needed to hear the rest of this insane conversation before I unleashed my fury and disdain.
Max scooted to the edge of his seat and gripped my arm. “He wants to purchase a few of Hamilton Associates’ outstanding shares,” he whispered, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
Brenneman piped up. “Well, maybe more than a few,” he suggested, rubbing his hands together. “More like just enough to make him the majority shareholder.”
I glared at Brenneman until I was satisfied with the amount of sweat beading on his forehead. “And how the hell would he do that?” The words slid between my clenched teeth. “There are only twenty per cent of shares outstanding. I own thirty-five per cent of the company’s shares,”
“Yes, and I own twenty per cent,” he reminded me. He gestured to Brockton. “He owns seven per cent, and so does Carmichael over there.”
My eyes narrowed as I put the pieces of the dastardly puzzle together.
Brockton confirmed my suspicions. “Some of us are feeling generous,” he commented. The grin on his face made me want to vomit.
“You’re going to give that asshole your share in the company? You’re not that much of an idiot.”
Brenneman responded. “Jesus Christ, Dylan. I, personally, would never sell all my shares. I’ve made more money riding your coattails than almost everyone around this damn table.” He shook his head. “No, not all of them. Just some. I’m not a sellout.”
“I beg to differ,” I spat.
Brenneman’s jaw clenched. “Back to the matter at hand,” he dismissed me. “The point is, all Michael needs to do is purchase twelve per cent of the public share offerings. By the time we slip him a few of ours, he’ll become the new lead shareholder.” He shrugged as pressed his lips together. “Unless of course you have some way to stop him...”
An intense silence descended upon the boardroom.
Max scrubbed at his brow and the muscle under my eye twitched.
“If you think I’d allow Michael Sawyer to set foot in this building – ”
Brenneman turned to the men around the table. “It seems as though he has a plan,” he said sarcastically.
A few of my board members shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Brenneman turned his focus back on me. “Dylan, you’ve been so devoted to this company,” he purred. “Blood, sweat, tears... Everything you have has been poured into making this company the megafirm that it is.”
“And you don’t think I’d pool resources to save my baby?” I growled. “I have millions of dollars’ worth of investments.”
Brenneman snickered. “You’re a very wealthy man, Dylan. You’re also a very savvy businessman. Well, you used to be...” He allowed his thought to hang. “To answer your question, well, no. I don’t think you’d pour everything you have into Hamilton Associates. You’d never put all your eggs in one basket. It’s be capitalistic suicide.”
He was correct.
The skin on my face tightened until I thought it would tear. I pressed my hand against my thigh to steady the shaking.
Brenneman sighed as if he were bored with the conversation. “Michael is hosting an event right now. In fact, Stafford, Ellis, and Marigold are there to meet with him and sous him out a little more...”
Laila...
A charged silence erupted around the table and my phone zapped against my heaving chest. I ripped it out of my blazer and a few of the men sighed.
My eyes dropped to the screen.
Unknown Number: It’s Friday, and I know you go to LIV... Maybe we could meet up.
I slammed the phone down on the hard wood and ran my hand over my chin.
Max leaned forward. “Dylan, I want you to know, we’re not one hundred per cent sold on this,” he tried to assure me. He looked at Jack McHardy, whose lips were pursed. “There are nine men on this board and there needs to be a vote.”
“Votes are not of equal value,” I reminded Max. “Brenneman alone represents twenty per cent of the vote.”
I ripped Brenneman with a menacing glare.
Brockton spoke, then. “I’m sorry, Dylan.”
“Are you really?” I snapped.
He ignored me and continued. “Unfortunately, we’ve reached the point at which we’re willing to consider other more aggressive options.”
Silence.
“Max said he offered you some time off...”
“I am not leaving my company,” I growled.
“Think of it as a time to regroup and refresh,” Brockton urged, and for a moment I thought I saw sincerity in his eyes. “Hell, use it as time to plan your wedding. We may not like that you’re marrying your former intern, but we’re not stupid enough to believe we’d be able to stop you from doing it.”
The men chuckled, as if trying to lighten the atmosphere.
It wouldn’t work.
I’d had enough. I pushed my chair back and gathered my papers. “There are other items on the agenda, but we’ll forward them to the end of quarter meeting. I don’t have time to deal with this bullshit.”
Max stood awkwardly to his feet as chatter erupted around the table. He gripped my tense shoulders. “Dylan, what about the vote?”
“There will be no vote until every member of the board is present,” I snapped. “Furthermore, protocols dictate that the vote can only occur at the end of the financial year, which is another month away.” I glared at Brenneman and Brockton before marching out of the boardroom, with Stella trailing behind me.
As soon as I was clear, I whipped out my phone and dialed Ignacio’s number immediately.
Voicemail.
“Goddamnit!”
I dialed Laila’s number and swallowed another expletive when it rang and rang until the only voice I heard was the pre-recorded one on her voicemail message. I stomped into my office and grabbed my keys off my desk.
Next, I was hopping into the Maybach and full-throttling it through the busy Friday streets. I arrived home in record time, surprised to find the Porsche parked out front and the lights on in my bedroom window.
I pushed the front door open. “Lai,” I called throughout the house.
She didn’t respond.
I closed the door and
shrugged out of my jacket, letting my briefcase fall from my shaking hands. “Laila!”
Ignacio came around the corner. His face was tense, and I fixed mine to match his.
“Ignacio, what’s going on?” I asked, grabbing his shoulders.
“I don’t know,” he answered. His voice was a hush. “But I think you should go and see la señorita. I dropped her off at the function, just like you asked...”
“And...” I pressed him.
“She called me within thirty minutes to pick her up.”
I frowned, and my hands tightened around his shoulders. “I swear to god if you tell me that bastard did something to upset her – ”
“That’s not it,” he cut me off. “I don’t think...” he was babbling.
I was becoming impatient.
I didn’t need Ignacio to be a middle man. I’d ask her myself, and there was no way I’d allow her to cop out with talk about her independence. What was more, we needed to have a very pointed conversation about her continued employment at Michael Sawyer’s firm. There was no way I’d allow it any longer. I’d tried my best to support her. I’d tried my best to stand back and let her govern her affairs. But things were different now.
Very different.
She didn’t know Michael the way I did, and I could detect his scheme a million miles away.
I stomped up the stairs. “Lai!” I called. My tone was aggressive and angry. It had been a long night, and now all I needed to do was be with ma belle fille, someone who understood me, and someone I understood just the same. But when I opened the door and saw her standing in the bathroom, staring into the mirror, I froze on the spot.
Twenty-One
Dylan
‘Gone’
Her hair was gone. The long, silky tresses – the ones I’d become accustomed to running my fingers through; the ones she loved for me to tug whenever we made love – had been replaced with short... short curls. The sides were tapered, and the back had been faded until there was barely anything left. On the side of her head, a distinct line cut through the remains of her glory.
“Sweetheart...” My voice cracked.
Laila turned away from the mirror and when our eyes connected, her bottom lip quivered. She pulled it between her teeth.
We stood staring at each other, neither of us moving.
Her eyelashes fluttered. “Do you like it?” her voice was feather-soft but had an edge that confused me.
I swallowed.
My mouth opened. I closed it.
I swiped my hand across my nape. “I...” My neck jutted forward. “Sweetheart... why?”
Her body stiffened. “Why what?”
I paused, fully cognizant of the emotional landmines which had been spread across the bedroom floor prior to my arrival. “What is this?” I asked.
The final question was no better. In fact, her response would reveal that it was ten times worse.
“What do you mean, what is this?” she mocked me. “This is me, Dylan.” She stomped out of the bathroom. I advanced carefully, trying to grab hold of the million things sprinting through my mind. I felt like I was about to overload.
“Ma belle fille...”
Her eyes were as hard as concrete.
I pulled my emotions to my center. “Sweetheart, when you left for the party, your hair was – ”
“Well it’s not like that anymore, and it won’t be like that ever again,” she snapped. “And judging from your bland reaction to my ethnic transformation, it’s obvious that you don’t like it.”
I stumbled towards her, her words confusing me. “Laila, of course I like it,” I tried to convince her; to convince myself. “Sweetheart, I’m in love with anything you do. It’s just...” I shook my head. “I liked it the way it was. There was nothing wrong with it. I had no idea you were thinking about doing something so... drastic.”
Tense silence.
“We didn’t discuss it, it’s totally out of the blue. Sweetheart, I’m shocked. Am I not allowed to be that?”
“For you, there might not have been anything wrong,” she grunted in response. Heat from her anger singed my prickling skin. “But for me...” her voice trailed off. “I’ve been doing some thinking.”
A heavy silence fell between us.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Okay... I’m all ears.”
Laila moistened her trembling lips and sat on the edge of the bed. After a second, I sat next to her. I ran my knuckles against her jawline as my eyes scanned the small, round shape of her head. I had never seen this texture of hair before. In fact, I hadn’t even known that her hair could be any different. I had always thought that her hair was... her hair. But now, the sight of the soft, wispy curls perplexed and intrigued me. I wanted to touch them; run my fingers through them, but with the way she was acting, I didn’t know if it was allowed.
The night had been so long, it seemed as if I didn’t know much of anything at that moment.
“I was at that party and there were all sorts of beautiful black women there,” she divulged. “They were wearing African attire, and they had natural hair, and they were flawless.”
My throat constricted as I tried to understand what she was conveying. “You’re beautiful and flawless, ma belle fille. There’s no one more beautiful than you are.”
Her eyes fell to the bed.
“There’s nothing special or significant about African clothes,” I suggested tilting her gaze towards mine. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Our eyes connected, and my breath caught at the hardness in hers. Her body tensed.
“You’re wrong,” she accused me. A kind of venom laced her tone. “It does mean something. It’s cultural. Its representative of an entire nation of people who were bound and enslaved. It represents strength, Dylan.”
My jaw tensed. She sounded like...
Just thinking about Michael Sawyer ignited an inferno inside of me, and the meeting I’d just stormed away from bombarded me. A flurry of emotions swirled inside of me, like dead leaves in a fall storm.
“You’re strong, Lai and you don’t need a dashiki to prove it.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Dylan... It’s more than that. It represents my heritage.”
“Laila, you’re so far removed from Africa, it’s not funny,” I said. My tone was curt. “Jesus Christ, don’t be one of those people.”
Her neck jerked. “Those people?”
“Yeah,” I came back. “Those people who use slavery to justify their misfortunes and lack of success. You’re not one of them,” I informed her.
“I’m not one of those people and that makes me good enough to be your wife...”
“Don’t do that...”
“I’m not doing anything,” she said hopping off the bed. “Trust me, you’re doing the most right now.”
I followed her, fighting exasperation. “Laila, you know the value of working hard. In fact, your work ethic is what has earned you the very status you boast. Remember? It had nothing to do with me. Everything you are, you did it by yourself. That’s all I’m saying. You’re not one of those people who uses culture as a crutch.”
Laila’s body vibrated. “You sound so ignorant,” she spat, her face twisted in disgust.
I stood back, lacerated by her blundering words.
“Maybe you’re right,” she considered, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Maybe everything I am is because I subconsciously assimilated myself into a culture of rich, white men and money.” She took a demonstrative step closer to my face. “Maybe everything I am is because I didn’t look like a typical black woman, the ones with nappy hair and a wide nose.”
“Laila, there is no doubt in my mind, or anybody else’s for that matter, that you are, indeed a black woman. If you think I’m exaggerating, ask my fucking Board of Directors, the men who are trying to oust me as CEO because I’m choosing you over everything else.”
It was a partial truth. I wanted to reveal the whole story – like how her arroga
nt jerk of a boss was planning to overthrow me by buying me out, but with the way this blasted conversation was going, we’d never get there.
Her breath snatched.
I glared at her, nostrils flared.
“I knew it,” she muttered over an unloving snicker.
“Knew what?”
“I knew that my blackness would end up being a problem for us.”
“Your blackness? For the love of – ”
“And now that my beautiful, long, European hair is gone; now that I don’t look like Emily Walton, you know it, too.”
I ran a shaking hand over my face and nape. “I don’t understand you,” I admitted woefully. “I’m trying to comprehend this new look, this entire conversation – I’m trying to understand you – but you’re making it impossible.”
“I’m not hard to understand, Dylan.”
“I pursued you with a vengeance,” I countered, “not because you resembled anything I had, but because you embodied my future. I came after you because I wanted you. You told me we wouldn’t work because of your independence and now you’re telling me it’s something else. You’re telling me it’s because you’re black?”
Her shoulders shuddered. “It’s one in the same,” she alleged. “But of course, you don’t get that.”
Silence.
“You can’t even look at me...” she added.
My chest lifted and fell as rage pumped unreasonable amounts of adrenaline through my veins, yet I refused to take my eyes off her. The fact was, she looked even more beautiful now than she ever had, something I had never dreamed possible. I could see everything about her: the full shape of her eyes, how round and bright and expressive they were, even with the rage sparking through them like fireworks. And now, I could see her high cheekbones, and the perfect arch of her eyebrows. I could see her sharp jawline and the way it gave way to her graceful neck. Wispy strands of curly black hair framed the crest of her forehead like delicate petals of a chocolate flower, and the way the sides tapered and faded accentuated the petite-ness of her ears.
Ma belle fille was striking, and she was phenomenal, and she was everything that I had ever wanted or needed in a woman. I was about to tell her that, even if the words didn’t come out in the exact way that I was thinking them; I was going to tell her all those things, but what she said next incinerated my loving feelings.
Coup: A BWWM Romance (The French Connection Book 2) Page 12
