Enemy Dearest

by Winter Renshaw

  “That’s nothing,” a second woman says. Her voice holds the desperate, youthful quality of a follower. A sheep who goes with the herd. I can sniff out those types a mile away. “I used to date this paralegal who worked for one of his attorneys. Said Westcott threw the most insane parties where everyone had to sign an NDA the second they walked in, and she was pretty sure everyone got roofied because the next day no one could remember what happened.”

  I stifle a snort.

  Fake news …

  “I’d legit give an entire paycheck to be a fly on the wall at one of his parties,” the first one says.

  “Right?” the second one—the spineless disciple—counters. “Did you know his house is, like, two-hundred-thousand square feet? I tried to look up pictures of the inside of it, but all I could find is this book that was written in the nineties when his parents were still alive. Not going to lie, I was kind of disappointed. Reminded me of a castle-version of my Nana’s house. Hope he’s updated the place. God knows he can afford it.”

  The first one laughs. “Maybe he wants it to look old on purpose? Wasn’t he screwing that woman twice his age a few years ago? Maybe he likes old things.”

  My jaw tightens. The woman to whom they’re referring is my aunt. She accompanied me to a bevy of fundraisers one year when I was tired of the revolving door of desperate women sucking my dick for a chance to get a photo with me on a red carpet.

  I throw up a little in my mouth.

  Only an ignorant idiot would mistake my aunt for a lover.

  They’re lucky she isn’t here to listen to this bullshit. She’s made grown men cry with her sweet smile and cutting tongue. These two would be minced meat.

  “Eh, I doubt that,” the other one says. “Did you see the last girl he dated? Freaking. Drop. Dead. Out. Of. This. World. Gorgeous.”

  She was easy on the eyes.

  I’ll give her that.

  But that was about the extent of her admirable qualities.

  “Didn’t he date two girls at once before? Like a throuple kind of thing?” Number two asks.

  Dated? No. Fucked until I grew bored of them? Absolutely.

  “Probably,” the other laughs.

  “Do you guys actually believe all that?” A third woman interjects, her voice soft yet feminine but her tone direct, no-nonsense. “If he makes everyone sign NDAs at his parties, then couldn’t your cousin get sued for sharing that? And if your friend and everyone at that party thought they were drugged, wouldn’t they want to get tested? Also, they haven’t made ten-thousand dollar bills in decades. That, and I highly doubt he does coke. Everyone knows he’s vegan.”

  Silence.

  “Also, what the inside of his home looks like is none of your business—that’s extremely invasive,” the third woman continues. “How would you feel if someone was Googling your address, trying to find pictures of where you slept? Where you ate dinner? And doesn’t one of you have a sugar daddy right now? You were just talking about your ‘allowance’ a minute ago …”

  Silence.

  “I kind of feel like when you’re the richest person in the world, people are going to be curious,” the second woman says, a little late on her defense. “It comes with the territory.”

  “Yeah,” the first one chimes in. “It’s not like we’re being stalkers. It’s different when you’re famous.”

  “Ah, true,” my fearless advocate sighs, a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

  I lean closer to the door, just enough to catch a glimpse of her face – only to be met with the back of her head and the ice-blonde waves cascading over her shoulders. A pinstriped blouse is tied high on her waist and cuffed at her elbows, and a fitted skirt skims her hourglass curves.

  She reminds me of one of those Old Hollywood pin-up girls my grandfather was obsessed with in his younger days. He kept a full file of photos in a desk drawer in his study, where my notoriously jealous grandmother would never see them.

  I lean away before I’m spotted.

  “My mistake, ladies,” the modern-day Marilyn Monroe says. “I must have forgotten rich people aren’t human. By all means, carry on.”

  I glance at my timepiece and make a mental note to have my right-hand man and personal attorney, Broderick, check the cameras in the break room so I can get the names of the two Gossiping Gabbys. And I take a hint of pleasure in imagining them commiserating at some God-awful trendy neighborhood bar, drinking sugary cocktails that match the pink slips they’re about to receive.

  I have zero tolerance for bullshit gossip—but I’ll make an exception if it’s flattering.

  I have a business to run—biggest in the world, in fact. And I’ve had more than a few deals go south because of idiotic rumors.

  The women’s conversation pivots to the topic of “keto friendly chocolate”, and I take that as my cue to leave. Only the instant I take a step past the open doorway is the same instant the curvy blonde in the pinstripe blouse exits the break room.

  We collide in passing, but it’s a subtle collision.

  My arm brushes hers just enough for a quick startle.

  Palm splaying across her chest, she apologizes.

  Our eyes lock, like she’s realizing who I am. This happens on a daily basis. For whatever reason, I intimidate the fuck out of people with my mere presence.

  The woman sucks in a breath before going silent, recognition widening her eyes, and then she brushes a flaxen wave from her forehead, chewing the inner corner of the juiciest rose-colored mouth I’ve ever seen.

  Funny how a moment ago she was so brave, standing up for a man she’d never met and now she’s a deer in the headlights. Doe-eyed and all.

  “What’s your name?” I ask. A work badge hangs from her neck, but I can’t take my attention off her pleasing almond-shaped gaze with their spray of dark lashes and ocean-blue irises. A chorus of wild flowers, sun-dried cotton, and fresh air fills my lungs. She smells like a morning in the countryside, and for the briefest moment I’m transported to childhood summers at my grandparents’ country home in Surrey.

  She swallows, straightens her shoulders, and tips her chin upwards. “Sophie Bristol.”

  She doesn’t ask my name. I imagine she doesn’t need to.

  “Thank you,” My gaze skims past her delicate shoulders toward the break room doorway, “for … that.”

  Her full lips press and she offers a slight nod. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m not vegan by the way,” I add.

  Her nose wrinkles. “I’m sorry?”

  “You told them I was vegan. But you should know, I’m very much a carnivore.” I give her a nuanced wink and earn a reserved smile from her pretty mouth in return.

  With that, I’m gone.

  I don’t stick around—I don’t have the time. I’m officially running late for a meeting with the board of Ames Oil and Steel, one in which I’m attempting to make a record-shattering, unheard-of offer. Not that I need it. As the richest man in the world, I don’t need much of anything, personally, professionally, or otherwise. Acquiring businesses has become more of a sport in recent years. I’d compare it to climbing mountains. You start with the smaller ones and work your way up to the tallest.

  Ames Oil and Steel is about to become the Mount Everest of my career.

  I head to the elevator, press the button for my private floor, and swipe my key before heading to the private boardroom.

  The second I stride through the door, Broderick greets me, throwing his hands in the air and mouthing something along the lines of, “What the hell?”

  The projector screen behind him is filled with a bevy of middle-aged faces with impatient frowns, all of them video-conferencing from a stuffy-looking room in Philadelphia.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, esteemed members of the board, I hope you weren’t waiting long.” I smile. I’m told I look halfway pleasant when I smile. When I’m not, I’ve been told I’m akin to an expressionless marble statue and people tend to grow uncomfortable when they think they can�
��t ‘read’ you.

  I take a seat at the head of my forty-foot mahogany table. Broderick slides me a legal pad emblazoned with the Westcott Corporation logo, along with a pristine Caran d’Ache fountain pen—only the best for my note taking. It was my father’s favorite brand. I’d hardly call myself sentimental or superstitious, but some things are worth an exception.

  “Mr. Westcott, we assume you received the agenda for today’s meeting?” Someone from their team breaks the east coast silence.

  Broderick slides me a printed email.

  “Have it right here.” I give it a quick perusal, speed-reading the bullet points and identifying the words that matter. “And I can already tell you that half of these items are unnecessary. I know your time is valuable. As is mine. So I propose we both stop wasting it, and you tell me the number you want on the check. I can have my CFO authorize it before close of business today.”

  I’m met with a few chuffs, and a handful of them exchange unreadable stares.

  Unprofessional, but I’m willing to turn the other cheek because once I buy them out, I’ll never have to see their sour faces again.

  “Mr. Westcott, as we all know, you’re well aware of the legacy clause in our contract,” Nolan Ames, the man at the head of the table with a 51% stake of his family’s company, folds his hands.

  “I’m well aware. Yes. Thank you.” I bite my tongue and hope he doesn’t pick up on the condescension in my tone. This absurd legacy clause is the only thing holding up the takeover and so far neither of us have been willing to budge. It’s difficult to see eye-to-eye when your opposition is an incredulous asshole on a power trip. “But from one businessman to another, I’d like to remind you that everything is negotiable.”

  He leans forward in his oversized leather chair, head tilted, polite smile painting his aging face, and he clears his throat. “My great-grandfather founded this company.”

  I nod, as if I’d never heard the name Ames along the likes of Astors, Rockefellers, and Rothschilds. I listen, silent as if I’ve no idea what it’s like to run a company founded by generations of familial predecessors.

  “At the end of the day, it’s a family business,” Nolan says. “It can’t switch hands unless I know for certain it’ll continue to stay a family business.”

  The idea of an environment-demolishing corporation being a “family business” is laughable at best. But this man is the kind of delusional with whom one can’t argue.

  I shoot Broderick a look. He pinches the bridge of his nose. We both know this is bullshit. Likely a stall tactic. If Nolan really wanted to sell, he’d sell. We’ve had enough off-the-record conversations with board members to know they’re ready to unload. Steel is holding steady but oil is at a twenty-year low. They can’t compete with the Saudis in this market. They’re ready to take their money to greener pastures and they’d have done it eight months ago when I initially offered, but I’m not interested in 49%.

  I’m an all-or-nothing man.

  “I’m willing to double my last offer,” I say, “which, we can all agree, was remarkably generous.”

  One could even argue it was stupid generous.

  Nolan peers at his folded hands. Still. Soundless. Either the conference call has glitched and they’re frozen, or he’s counting dollar signs. A second later, he finally moves, twisting the glinting platinum and diamond wedding band on his left ring finger, sliding it off then on again.

  “Mr. Westcott, do you mind if we place you on mute for a moment?” A woman in oversized pearls and a charcoal suit stands.

  “Not at all,” I say.

  She reaches for the black device in the center of the table. The sound disappears and the screen goes dark. Nothing but a flashing icon that shows we’re on hold.

  “Can’t wait to be done with this prick.” I point my pen toward the screen. “At this point, I should make him pay me for wasting my fucking time.”

  Broderick exhales. “Just be patient. It’s going to happen. You always get what you want.”

  I sink back into my chair.

  He’s right.

  I always get what I want.

  In fact, I don’t recall a time when I haven’t.

  Glancing to my left, I take in a view of the somber Chicago skyline outside and contemplate my weekend plans. When I return my attention to my legal pad, I’ve jotted a name on the lower right corner of the first page. I don’t remember doing it, but it’s undeniably my handwriting.

  Sophie Bristol.

  I must have written it so I could remember. With over sixty thousand employees, I couldn’t begin to remember anyone’s names outside my tight-knit circle of trusted executives.

  The screen fills with the Ames baker’s dozen once more and the sound returns. A handful of indiscernible whispers. Shuffled papers. Cleared throats. Creaking chairs.

  I circle Sophie’s name to remind myself to check into her later—mostly out of curiosity. Her face—and body—suddenly adulterate my focus, and very rarely does something distract me to this degree.

  “Have we reached a decision?” I ask.

  Broderick gives me a subtle wink, as if he’s certain this is the moment Nolan finally relents after eight agonizingly tortuous months of back-and-forth negotiations.

  “Not quite. I have a proposition for you,” Nolan says. “If you’re open to hearing it.”

  “Of course.” I sit up.

  Broderick shifts in his seat, listening, taking notes as Nolan lays out an offer I never could have anticipated.

  Nolan Ames is holding strong on the legacy clause. He wants me to “find someone,” to “settle down,” to get fucking married and start a family. He’s also graciously giving me two years because according to him, “you’re thirty-five and your best years are behind you anyway.” He even had the audacity to say I’d thank him someday.

  Thank him for what? For a money-hungry trophy wife? For a kid that’ll inevitably be raised by a team of nannies? For a version of my life I’ve never wanted?

  People like me don’t do the marriage-and-family dance.

  It’s not who we are.

  It’s not who I am.

  I’m aware of my strengths. I’m also aware of my weaknesses. I’d be a horrible husband and an even worse excuse for a father.

  Nolan agreed to put everything in writing—that he wouldn’t offer his shares to anyone else in the next two years, and the board agreed to do the same. I imagine there was an extensive amount of coaxing going on behind the scenes, hence the muting, but I don’t have time to imagine what he could possibly hold over their heads because I’m too busy wrapping my mind around this preposterous, unprecedented stipulation.

  “Who the hell does he think he is?” I all but spit my words at Broderick when we disconnect a few minutes later. “He’s insane.”

  Broderick rises, his chair groaning beneath his bodyguard-esque frame, and he tosses his pen on the table. Pacing the windows, he inhales hard and heavy, always a man of few words.

  “I’m going to need you to actually fucking say something.” I exhale, my patience non-existent. Though my words are sharp, Broderick’s got a chainmail ego. He can handle it, unlike the spineless trout before him. He puts up with my moods, whichever way they swing, and when necessary, he puts me in my place.

  It’s why I’ve yet to replace him in the ten years he’s worked for me.

  Most people tell me what I want to hear.

  Broderick tells me what I need to hear—the truth.

  A man can’t make savvy business decisions based on sugarcoated lies.

  “It’s a power move,” he says, eyes pointed yet unfocused. I don’t like this side of him. I need my shark, not his shell-shocked alter.

  “Obviously.” I clench my jaw. “So what do you propose?”

  He stops wearing a pattern into the carpet with his polished dress shoes and turns to me. “How badly do you want this?”

  “Do I even have to answer that?”

  His mouth forms a straight lin
e, nostrils flaring. “Fine. This is the plan. We hire someone. We find a woman—one we can trust—and we pay her to marry you, have your child, and to do it all in Nolan’s timeframe.”

  “Please tell me you’re fucking joking.”

  He lifts a brow. “Eight months of this back-and-forth bullshit and the man hasn’t budged, Trey. Hasn’t even come close. You heard what he wants. He’s not wavering on that clause. And unfortunately, he knows he has the upper hand because anyone else would’ve walked by now.”

  “This is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.” In my nearly fifteen years of negotiating acquisitions and takeovers, I’ve yet to hear of such a provision. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was being pranked. But Ames has a reputation. He’s a family man. Wife of nearly ten years. Two kids. The bastard even wrote a book on “creating the ideal marriage in an anti-marriage world.” Instant bestseller. He considers himself an expert in that—and many other—arenas.

  In my experience, powerful men who think they’re the smartest asshole in the room make some of the dumbest decisions … sometimes simply because they can. The world doesn’t tell men like Nolan Ames “no” just as it doesn’t tell men like me “no.”

  I hunch over the table, staring down at the circled name.

  Sophie Bristol.

  “All right. Plan B. We tell him we’re going to pass,” Broderick says, lifting a finger because he knows I’m about to protest. “If he knows you’re willing to walk away and take your excessively generous offer off the table, maybe it’ll light a little fire in him. Level the playing field a bit. Tip the scales in our favor—or at least equalize them.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Then we move on and find another company to buy.”

  I don’t like the idea of moving on. I want this company. I’ve had my sights set on it for years, and when rumor had it he was looking to sell so he could retire early and focus on being a “family man,” I jumped on the opportunity.