“Tanner!” Mark says with the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen in my life plastered on his smug weasel face. “Man of the hour! I never thought I’d say it, but—goddamn, Sharpe. Let me shake the hand of the man who bested Elsa Blakely.”
He shakes my hand and mechanically, I let him. My mother didn’t raise me to half-ass a handshake, but this fucker doesn’t even deserve to have my name in his mouth.
And he certainly doesn’t deserve hers.
I’d curb stomp that grin right off of his understated jaw right now if I thought it would help.
Hell, if I catch him with Elsa’s name on his tongue again, I might do it anyway.
But, when I look down the boardroom table at all the other posers and dipshits grinning at me in the exact same way…
Lis Langley is going to have a fucking heyday if I wind up systematically assaulting my entire board.
“So let’s talk strategy, Tanner,” Mark says, steering me toward my seat at the table. “We’re ahead on this, so if we pivot properly, I think…”
I don’t bother to sit. I feel like there’s no way this can take long.
It’s not like it’s fucking difficult, right?
In their eyes, I’ve eliminated our top competitor. I cut the beast off at the head. Without Elsa fucking Blakely, that company is just a bunch of dumb apes stringing up underwire and lace on Elsa’s reputation and laurels.
The farce of our engagement should be over now, too. What’s the point? No business in marrying the enemy when the battle’s already been won.
If we get anything from this…I’m glad it’s that, at least.
When Elsa Blakely marries someone, it should be on her terms. Period.
And let’s not kid ourselves here—she was never going to marry a bastard like me without a contract in front of her and an ultimatum hanging over her head.
Even I’m not that fucking cocky.
So that’s what I figure. We’ll breeze through this meeting—I’ll have a glass of champagne and go sit in my office—while they all jerk each other off over all the fucking money I just made them.
But of course, it’s not that simple. It’s never that simple. I realize that much when they bring out the bimbos.
Now, I’m a man who respects women. I have my flaws, my issues, my own fucking demons that I’ve gotta deal with. But when I fuck a woman—I appreciate her, I worship her—I make her feel like the goddamn goddess she is.
The bimbos, on the other hand, have obviously been paid very well to be here—how else would they be able to afford fake tits the size of twin bowling balls like this?
They scamper out, three of them, and line up at the far end of the boardroom table like this is some kind of fucking flesh auction and I’m the only bidder.
“Now,” Mark begins with pride, because obviously he’s the asshole who orchestrated this circus of stupid fuckery—the rest of us are just filling seats. “I know that you and Elsa had chemistry, Sharpe. There’s no denying that. But with Ms. Blakely out of the picture and the entire bridal line on our side now…You’re a marketing man, Sharpe. You know how it goes. Don’t like the story, change it, right?”
“Yes, we’ve all caught up on our Netflix sessions of Mad Men, Mark.” It takes the patience of a fucking saint not to roll my eyes. “Get to the point.”
“What we’ve got is a bridal line—but what we need is a bride.” Mark pauses dramatically, like he’s waiting for the applause to start up again. It’s apparent that he’s put a lot of effort into scripting this bullshit.
But this ain’t
the fucking Oscars. This is my life.
“No,” I tell him, because I know where this is going. “Fuck no.”
“Sharpe,” Mark warns me, “You’re coming off a win today, buddy. But don’t think that puts your position as CEO of this company in any less of a precarious—”
“Is that what you fuckers think this is?” I ask, turning to the board. “Some little prick comes up with a new way to fuck over my life, and the rest of you just smile and nod and prepare to golf clap all the way to the bank, huh?”
“You could at least listen to the pitch, Sharpe.” Mark is looking a little too tail-between-the-legs for my liking now. It’s actually worse than seeing him smug.