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I stare at Terry and I can tell by the expression on his face that he isn’t bullshitting me. I don’t exactly enjoy not getting my way, not because I’m a spoiled child but because most of the time, it’s just because someone hasn’t done the work to figure out a new way to get me what I want.
How the fuck else do you think I became the most powerful billionaire in Chicago before the age of forty?
“So what’s the plan then? I just lose one of the biggest deals in media history because they don’t like who I fuck or how I manage my enemies?”
Terry reaches into the left pocket of his lapel, producing a small white business card. He leans forward, placing it on my desk and sliding it toward me with one finger.
“Call Lisa Wade, like I told you to do a year ago.”
I stare down at the name printed in black block letters. She’s a pit bull through and through, owner of the most prestigious PR firm in the city—hell, probably in the US. She’s the person anyone who’s anyone calls the moment they find themselves in hot water.
“This deal hasn’t walked yet, Cyrus.” Terry stands up and tugs gently on his cuffs beneath his suit jacket sleeves. “If it had, I’d have heard from their lawyers. It’s a threat and if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s how you level up and come back swinging twice as hard. Lisa is expecting your call. She’ll get your reputation in check, and then we’ll knock it out of the park with this deal.”
After we say our goodbyes, I sink back down in my chair, flipping the business card in my fingers over and over. I hate admitting defeat and I really fucking hate having to pander to people’s ideas of who they think I should be.
I’ve never pretended to be a saint or a nice guy. I’ve been called the “bad boy billionaire of Chicago” for a reason and I wear it like a badge of honor. I refuse to kowtow to people and kiss their ass just so they shake my hand and smile to my face while stabbing me in the back with their other hand.
I toss the card on my desk and stand up, walking over to the window to look down at the people filling the streets far below. They look like ants from up here.
I think about what my dad would have done in a situation like this. Actually, I know what my dad would have done. He’d have groveled, bent over backward, and sold his soul if it meant that he’d be seen in a better light. That’s the biggest lesson he taught me before he died of pancreatic cancer at fifty-four years old. My dad worked day and night, sacrificed his wife, his health, and his sanity, all so people would think he was a good guy, so he could appease everyone else, and still, he was destroyed by those who pretended to be his friends. He died penniless—in debt actually—and not a single one of those soul-sucking leeches even showed up to his funeral.
I can feel my pulse in my temples; my blood pressure is through the roof. I reach up and tug at my tie, hoping that by loosening it, I’ll find relief, but it does little to help. I glance over my shoulder at the business card on my desk, taunting me. I hate asking for help… I hate admitting that I need help.
“Fuck it.” I walk back over and pick it up, pulling my phone out of my pocket with my other hand and dialing the number—not the one that’s printed, but the one that’s been scribbled on the back next to the words personal cell.
“Lisa Wade.” Her tone is clipped, her voice deeper than I remember.
“Lisa, this is Cyrus. Cyrus Gates.”
“Cyrus! Last time I saw you was at that holiday party where my husband was trying to convince you to buy his boat.” She lets out a throat chuckle. “How are you?”
“Been better I suppose if I’m calling you.”
“Well, tell me what the issue is.”
This time, I laugh. “We both know the answer to that already, Lisa.”
* * *
“How bad is it?” I squirm in my chair as Lisa pours over her tablet, her tortoiseshell glasses barely hanging on to the end of her professionally sculpted nose. Her white blouse is wrinkle-free, tucked crisply into a pair of slim black pants. Shiny, classic black Louboutin heels adorn her feet that are tucked delicately beneath the chair she’s perched on, one ankle crossed over the other.
She glances up at me, slapping the cover closed before staring me dead in the eyes.
“Could be way worse. Honestly, the fact you don’t have any paternity suits and you haven’t been caught with illegal substances or prostitutes is a big plus in my world.” I smile, but she continues. “That being said, you should have listened to me at that holiday party a year ago when I told you to take that adjunct professor position being offered to you at the University of Chicago.”
I crook an eyebrow. “Seriously? Me teaching? Come on now, Lisa. I might have graduated from their hallowed halls, but I’m sure as shit not their golden boy. They do love to cash my alumni checks though.”
“Just doing a simple search of your name and seeing the top images and articles that pop up about you in the last few months, I’d tell you off the top of my head to stop sleeping with married women, being photographed with women young enough to be your daughter, and athletes who like to break the law.”
“In my defense, Nikki told me they were separated and pursuing a divorce,” I say, referring to Nikki Frisk, the now ex-wife of Peter Frisk, the tech giant of Chicago. “How the fuck was I supposed to know she was lying and just doing it to get back at Peter for screwing their fourth nanny?”
She waves away my excuse. “The public doesn’t know those details. What they saw was a spoiled forty-six-year-old billionaire with a married twenty-nine-year-old woman who is now divorced.”
“That wasn’t on me!” I say defensively. “They made that bed together. I was merely a pawn that was used. And those photos of me with models are old; I haven’t been to one of those yacht parties in ages. Every few months the press circulates some old photo of me with some bullshit headline. It’s clickbait, Lisa.”
“Bottom line, Cyrus, is that the public passed a judgment on you a long time ago that you can’t change. I’m not here to wipe away your past. As my political clients like to say: I’m merely here to help you establish a clean slate, make people forget the past they’re so blinded by your future.”
“I like the sound of that.”
