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“Judging by today, so does Rachel Hartwell.”
Daniel leaves before I can reply. Once the door closes, I pull up Rachel’s photo on the Hartwell’s website again. She wasn’t what I expected.
Her dark hair falls in loose waves over one shoulder, and small gold earrings catch the light. She has high cheekbones, a straight nose, and dark brows over warm brown eyes. Her soft mouth curves into an easy smile. In her cream blouse, she looks kind, welcoming, and lovely without trying to be. She has the sort of face guests must trust at once.
She looks even lovelier in person. It would be easy for a man to underestimate her. I did. The woman’s a total shark.
She waited until late last night to submit her report, leaving my team no time to respond. Then she got the hearing delayed and hurried straight to the elevator, forcing me to rush after her and catch the doors before they closed. She knew exactly how much pressure she was putting on me.
A less skilled negotiator would’ve named a price. Rachel wants me to believe she doesn’t have one. If I accept that, I’ll start raising my offer before she’s asked for a dollar. It’s a clever move, but I won’t bid against myself.
I check my inbox again. She still hasn’t replied to my email.
God, she’s good.
At nine seventeen, I’m sitting alone at one end of a fourteen-seat dining table. In front of me are reheated sea bass, a glass of water, and my laptop.
My house sits high in the hills on several acres, at the end of a long gravel drive with a stone fountain I’ve never cared about. It has white walls, a red-tile roof, six bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and enough space to lose a small child for several hours.
I bought it four years ago because I assumed I would fill it one day—with a wife, children, and loud family dinners. So far, I’ve managed to use one bedroom and half the kitchen.
Attracting women has never been difficult. Making a relationship last is the problem.
The women I date say they understand that I work long hours. I think they mean it—until a call interrupts dinner or I have to cancel our plans because something has gone wrong at a hotel across the country.
My last relationship lasted almost two years. During the final three months, I canceled two vacations. After the second, she said she was tired of coming after my work. I told her things would calm down once the deal closed. She said there would always be another deal, and she was right.
Mom spent years telling Dad that Voss took too much of him. Then she left him for Carl. I was young, but I remember what it did to Dad and how bitter he became afterward.
Since he died, the demands on me have only grown. There are more meetings, more decisions, and more people watching to see whether I can run the company as well as he did.
Some nights, I wonder if a man can give this much of himself to a company and still have enough left for a wife and children. Lately, I’ve started to think the answer is no. The work isn’t going to slow down, and I won’t walk away from it. I may have to accept that this house will stay as empty as it is tonight.
My laptop chimes, breaking the silence. The architect has sent rough plans for the Hartwell Boulevard hotel. That was fast. I only asked for them a few hours ago. I push my plate aside and open the file. The sketches show how the site would change if we built a service lane on our own property.
It would run directly beside the Hartwell’s lane. Nearly forty feet of pavement, side by side, doing the same job. Making room for ours would take twenty feet from the building. I go through every change and hate all of them. The hotel can be redesigned, but that doesn’t mean it should be.
There’s a better answer. We share the lane that already exists. We can set delivery times so the hotels don’t need it at once and give the Hartwell first use during events. Any clash can be managed. Once we give up twenty feet of the building, that space is gone.
I look through the sketches again. The architect has done exactly what I asked. The problem is the idea itself. Building a second service lane beside the first makes no sense.
This is the first major project I’ve led since becoming CEO. I chose the site, approved the design, and convinced the board to invest four hundred million dollars in it. I also approved plans that relied on access we hadn’t secured. The mistake is mine, and I’ll fix it. But that doesn’t mean accepting the first redesign placed in front of me. I still have six weeks to reach an agreement with her.
Dad ran Voss for almost fifty years, and the board always knew what to expect from him. They’re still deciding what kind of CEO I’ll be. I won’t be the kind who gives up the best design before testing every other option.
I close the drawings and check my inbox. A new message from Rachel waits at the top.
Finally.
I open her reply.
Mr. Voss,
As I stated at today’s hearing, the Hartwell service lane is not available for Voss use. There is nothing further to discuss.
Regards,
Rachel Hartwell
