Trillion - A Fake Relationship Romance

“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.