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“You just let yourself in?” I ask, sitting at my desk.
“That’s no way to greet your father.”
“It is when I find him randomly standing in my office.”
Dad turns around to look at me, not a trace of amusement at my jab. “Where are we on the Westerlyn account?”
“Norman’s signed the agreement, and I met with the other owner for our face-to-face introduction.”
“You’re not supposed to be meeting with her, you’re supposed to be convincing her to sell.”
“She’s not interested at this time.”
My dad arches an eyebrow. “You weren’t able to convince her?”
“Hardly,” I say, ignoring his jab, my voice deadpan. “She has invested significant time and resources into these hotels, and retirement isn’t a persuasive angle, given her age. Convincing her to align with our perspective will require substantial effort. If we’re not careful, we run the risk of her doubling down. She also has the respect of her staff, and I don’t doubt they’d be on her side if that happens.”
“Staff is replaceable. They don’t have to see things our way. There are plenty of other people in the city who’d be more than willing to have the job and do it the way we want.”
“I’m not going to fire her whole staff just to prove a point.”
“And that’s why you’re not on the board yet. You’re not willing to do what needs to be done.”
Something inside of me snaps.
Maybe it’s the cavalier way he’s willing to take away people’s livelihoods, maybe it’s him rubbing salt in the wound when it comes to me running the board. Whatever the case, anger and defiance rush through my veins at an alarming rate.
“I’m not on the board yet because you refuse to relinquish control,” I reply sharply. “Stop micromanaging me. I know what I’m doing. I’ve convinced hundreds of people to sell to us and my closing rate is higher than anyone else’s.” This includes him, and he knows it. “I’ll get her to sell, and I’ll do it my way.”
Dad doesn’t even flinch. “Do I really have to remind you that not too long ago, you encountered a significant loss to Rutherford Plaza Hotels?”
“Anything else?” I bark, refusing to revisit that topic again.
“You’ve always been so hotheaded, son. There’s no need to get worked up over a simple conversation.”
“Are we done here?”
“I’ll come back later when you’ve had time to cool off.”
Yeah, right. Of course he’d play things as if he ended the conversation. Douglas Blackwood can’t stand losing, even if it’s only verbally.
He turns to leave, but stops in his tracks. “Ah, hang on. But before I go,” he says, handing over some mundane document, “send this fax for me, will you? My fax machine is acting up, and Jasmine isn’t in yet.”
“There’s no fax machine in this company, except in your office. You’re the only one clinging to old technology.”
He exits my office, and I sit there for a moment, fuming.
Then I have an idea.
After a moment of reflection, I pick up my phone and dial the hotel’s number. Soon after, I’m transferred to Jess.
“Hey, it’s Sean. I need to meet with you this morning.”
After a few moments of silent contemplation, she says, “Eleven o’clock, my office.”
Ispend the next hour preparing and make it to the hotel with about five minutes to spare. Sarah’s desk is a jumble of files and thick folders, a clear attempt to fill the void left by Norman Whitman’s absence. She informs me that Jess is in Norman’s office—my new office for the time of the overhaul—and I find her standing by one of the shelves, eyes narrowed at the fax machine, meticulously entering a number. I open my mouth to speak, and before I can utter a syllable, she raises a finger and shushes me.
My eyebrows take a hike to my hairline. I’m not used to being shushed. “Did you just?—?”
