Page 3 of The Things We Treasure
"You weren't happy in today's meeting," she stated without question.
No point lying. "You're right. I wasn't."
"Why's that?"
"I thought the rent hike was unfair," Breht said, leaning forward. "Those businesses will struggle to cope. Why not invest in them instead? Turn them around, make them viable. Then they'll pay us rentanda percentage of their profits." He paused, his voice dropping. "Businesses aren't numbers. They're people's livelihoods."
"It's too much of a gamble," Dura dismissed.
"It doesn't have to be."
She raised an eyebrow. "Explain."
"Pick one business from the complex. I'll take it, turn it around. If I succeed, Merloft gets a reliable tenant and an investment return. If I fail, you were right."
Dura rose from her desk and moved to the filing cabinet behind her, withdrawing three ring-bound folders. She returned to her seat and laid them out before her in a deliberate line, as if arranging pieces on a chessboard.
The first folder she opened was a café, established, profitable, and minimal risk. She studied the financials for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she set it aside.
The second was a boutique clothing store. Struggling, but with a recognisable brand and existing customer loyalty. She flicked through the pages methodically, her fingers tracing the profit margins as though calculating something beyond the numbers. She set this one aside as well.
The third folder remained closed for a moment. Dura's fingers rested on its spine, and when she finally opened it, Breht caught a glimpse of something different—photographs interspersed with financial data. She studied the pages slowly, deliberately, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as she turned each one.
A delicate paua shell necklace. Handwritten notes. Customer testimonials tucked between images like pressed flowers. A mission statement painted on driftwood. The photographs told a story of meticulous care, of a business built on passion rather than profit margins.
Dura closed the folder and slid it across the desk toward him with deliberate precision.
"This one," she said quietly.
Breht opened it and immediately stopped scanning for numbers. Instead, his eyes caught on the first page. A photograph of a delicate paua shell necklace, iridescent blues and greens catching the light. It looked handmade in a world obsessed with mass production; someone cared about this.
His dark eyes scanned the document, giving him a brief overview of the company - a jewellery-making adventure that had dwindling profits that just about covered expenses; rentincluded. He grumbled to himself as he read, running his hand across his carefully groomed beard as he scanned the information. A business like this was a dime a dozen in hot-spot touristic towns, and he felt prompted to ask, “Why this one?”
The smile that greeted him was merciless, “Because it’s the one you have the greatest chance of failing at.”
Those words instantly haunted him. There was no vote of confidence in the woman who had given birth to him. Just the expectation that he’d fail in his announced endeavours. He tucked the report into his leather bag and, without a word, stood from his seat. She knew exactly how to cut to his heart, the timing of her words a perfect skewer, stopping his beats. A verbal knife wound that only twisted when she spoke again.
Breht took the folder back, his eyes dropping to the cover. There, embossed in silver lettering, was the business name:Ohpaua.
And beneath it, the owner's name:Brierley Mirren.
His breath caught. It couldn’t be. Not after all these years.
“We’re having dinner tonight with Mr and Mrs Reiyroris,” the stern woman imparted, and a fresh wave of dread crashed over him, stopping him in his tracks. “They tell me that Rosani will be joining us.”
“In that case, I’ll pass,” Breht stated as firmly as possible. “I’d rather get to work on this,” he added, raising his bag a fraction.
“Breht,” that cold, calculating voice stated his name. He knew what it meant, that she’d suffer no argument from him, but his resolve didn’t crack.
“No, Ma. Not this time. I can’t,” he cut her off. Wishing for once that she’d hold him up, support him in some manner, rather than let him crash. His Ma always seemed determined to undermine him in some way. All the mistakes rested entirely on his broad shoulders for him to carry; it was no wonder he was cracking under the pressure of their burden.
“Has something happened between you two again?” She questioned.
“Yes,” he confessed, but didn’t elaborate.
Dura’s expression didn’t soften. “What did you do this time? Rosani is a lovely girl, I hope you’ve not upset her.”
Lovely, if fighting wildcats was your definition of the word. “I left a dirty cup on her mantlepiece,” was all the energy he could muster.
