"More champagne? More models? You really do the Maxwell name proud, little bro," Evan said.
Even my own family didn't see that my reputation was all for show. I couldn't remember the last time I thought they really knew me.
"Congratulations on the review, Evan," I said. "Tell Father I say hi."
"Come on, Rainer, don't be like that. Come to dinner and say hi to him yourself."
I shoved up out of my office chair and glared out over the tremendous view. It didn't matter that I was almost at the top of Hyperion Industries. It didn't matter that I wore custom-made suits and expensive shoes. My brother had worked his way through medical school, paid off all his debts, and then climbed to the top of his field all on his own. Compared to him, I was a parasite. The world thought I could charm everyone, but my father saw through me. He knew I was nothing but a con in a fancy suit.
"Sorry, Evan, I'm just not in the mood for a family share and compare tonight," I said.
Evan laughed. "But it's a family tradition. We fight it out until we're sixty and then we see who gets the family fortune. A little friendly, family competition. That's the reason we have the family fortune in the first place. You know Father just barely beat out Uncle Bert. If he hadn't made those real estate deals a decade ago, we'd be sucking up to old man Bert for tiny trust funds."
"As if you need any more money," I said.
"It's not for me; it's for future generations," Evan said.
"I know, I know. 'Maxwells make the family fortune.' You realize our grandfather was a sick man to pit everyone against each other," I said.
"Sick? How about genius. We've got to make something of ourselves before we get the big bucks. I can't wait to see what my kids do," Evan said.
"Well, good luck with that. I've got a meeting to get to," I said.
"Fine, but don't say I didn't invite you. Oh, and don't crinkle up your forehead when you smile or you'll get more wrinkles than even I can erase," Evan said.
I hung up the phone and leaned my forehead against the glass. It was ridiculous to call the expectations in my family a tradition. My grandfather had been dirt poor but made a respectable living as a master stone mason. My uncle had become a corporate attorney and set the bar high. Then my father had cashed in all his shrewd real estate deals and become the patriarch. As a Maxwell, I was expected to contribute to the slowly accumulating family fortune or not receive any of the benefits.
So, I put on the big smile, trotted out my best jokes, and dodged my way through the murky ranks of Hyperion Industries. It was just the sort of monstrous corporation that allowed men like me (short on tangible talent, heavy on personality) to grease the right palms and get to the top. Even I was sick of the rigged system.
A rapid knock was followed by, "Mr. Maxwell? Just a few quick items before your meeting."
I turned from the glass and dragged my mouth into an easy smile. Rainer Maxwell didn't brood out the window. I knew I had it good but wanted more, and I hoped today's meeting would do just that.
"Tasha Nichols requested a meeting. As soon as possible, she said." Topher smirked and moved that message to the bottom of his list.
"Tasha Nichols?" I asked. Her name was like a lighthouse in my foggy thoughts, but that didn't fit my playboy persona. "The new coffee girl?"
Topher chuckled. "No. That's Sasha. Tasha Nichols oversees the GroGreen app production team."
"How else would I know her?" I asked.
Topher was eager to show off his assistant skills and his impressive memory for Hyperion personnel. "She's been on the rise for the two years, a favorite of Mr. Eastman."
"Stan?" I retied my tie in the mirrored wall behind my desk. "His reputation for chasing skirts was worse than mine."
Topher grinned. "He's taken a particular interest in her this year and has been carefully tracking her progress on this app project."
The Chief Operations Officer had his eye on her. He was at least twenty years Tasha's senior, but it still bothered me. "So, is she old and silver like our Mr. Eastman?"
"You really don't remember her, Mr. Maxwell?" Topher asked.
I pulled on my suit coat and arched an eyebrow at my assistant. "Why would I remember her?"
It was a test. I knew it, and he knew it. Topher had to walk the fine line between giving me the information I wanted and leaving out the details that did not reflect well on me. I might not have had the best talent, but I could sure teach the kid how to navigate the egos of corporate America. It was a special skill he'd seen me wield with great results.
"You met her at last year's holiday party. She was in a red satin dress with a white cashmere cardigan. You knew her name and reputation, but that's the first time you met in person," Topher said.
I nodded. The image of Tasha enduring a pose with Santa Claus was impossible to erase. A pretty blush had lit up her cheeks even as she smiled politely and pried off Santa's hands. I saved her by pulling her onto the dance floor. Frankly, she'd dazzled me, and all I'd been able to say was, "Pretty little candy cane." The line haunted me every time I saw her, and I was very glad that detail had been forgotten.