Page 60 of Heated Takeover

“Have you gotten to know him?” he asks.

“I mean, not like that. Or, not in any way that’s not…I mean…” I am stuttering like an idiot. I knock over my cup of brightly colored markers that I use to highlight the entirety of my life, sending a rainbow of pens across my normally organized desk. “I just mean that after a while, his motives became easier to understand.”

“His motives,” he echoes and I swallow back my words again.

“Dad. I understand that he came in here like a wrecking ball. And that he had no business knocking you aside, but in all fairness, he did buy shares–”

“Yeah, shares that I never knew were being bundled into one controlling sale. Enough shares to throw me out onto the streets. That asshat is even using my parking spot; did you see that? Right where my name used to be is a gold and black sign that says Reserved for Marcus Ashford, CEO,” my dad says with bitterness, making a banner with his hands in the air so I can better envision it.

“All of that said, Dad, he’s not out to destroy the company,” I say.

“Is that right? Let me guess, that’s what he told you when he moved you out of your cubicle next to Dylan’s into this big fancy office and made you the director of events,” he says and I pout at that.

“He made me the director of events because I am qualified for the job,” I say, making no attempt to hide the hurt in my voice. “I am qualified for the job. You know that.”

My dad steps off his high-horse and his expression softens a little, back to the face I know. “I didn’t mean you aren’t qualified to do the job, sweetie. You know how much I believe in you. I always have. I just mean that men like Ashford are manipulative. When they see something they want, they take it. And to ensure they don’t come head-to-head with any resistance, they give personal incentives.”

My mouth flies open, and I slide my glasses up the bridge of my nose and tighten my high ponytail. “Dad. This office is not an incentive. I’m not just saying that because I want to love it without guilt. I’m saying it because I have been working with Marcus Ashford for a while now, and I am starting to see things from his perspective,” I say. I stop talking because I know my father is going to cut me off right here, right now.

“His perspective?” he asks with indignation.

“Yes, Dad. The perspective of a CEO who knows how to run empires. He didn’t buy all those shares to watch M.E. crumble; he bought them to continue building it.” I am careful not to use the word save because Mission Events didn’t need to be saved. “He didn’t come in with an iron fist, firing seasoned staff left and right to replace them with employees of his own. He didn’t fire anyone except for that guy with the bad beard.”

“Justin?” my father says. “I couldn’t stand that guy either, but he was an HR hire. You know how it goes…”

“Dad, he has plans for the future of Mission Events,” I state.

“What kinds of plans?” he asks skeptically.

“Expansion, Dad. With Ashford linked to our name, we have open doors that most people with companies like ours have been knocking at for years. We are the go-to for luxury events now. It really is true what they say about connections being everything.”

“If I didn’t know any better, Natalie, I’d say Ashford is slowly turning you against me.”

“Dad,” I start to say, but Margaret David walks in, and that’s the end of that…for now.

“Hello my Darlings! How are you?”

Her energy is on full blast, per usual. She’s dressed in a swishy pantsuit today, all white, and has no less than eight gold bangle bracelets clinking around her wrists. Her makeup is spot-on; her smile genuine. If I had to guess, she’s already taken the world by storm.

“Hello Margaret,” I smile at her, though I am pretty sure my tone is a little duller than hers. I hate arguing with my father, and I hate conversations like this. “How are you?”

“Fully caffeinated and half starved,” she says, and her voice fills the room. “James, I’m craving curry. How about you?”

“Jamaican, Thai, Indian?” he asks, standing up.

“Oh, let’s do Indian. I just love a couple slices of hot naan to soak it all up,” she laughs. She turns her attention to me and says, “Natalie, darling, why don’t you join us?”

Usually I would. I never say no to a lunch date with my father and his oldest friend, or Indian food for that matter. But today, all things considered, I am going to pass.

“Oh, that’s okay. I have plenty of work I am supposed to be doing,” I say.

“Surely you’re allowed a lunch break,” she argues.

“I am. But I brought a lovely salad from home,” I force a smile.

“Soggy salad in the office,” she shakes her head. “This Ashford fellow runs a tight ship, doesn’t he?”

I don’t say anything. I just continue to smile tightly.