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Chapter 6
Declan
One Year Later
Someone is scuttling off down the hallway trailing a bunch of balloons behind them as I step off the elevator in the Dynasty corporate headquarters.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, turning to see a wild-eyed woman teetering on a chair while tearing down a banner.
She’s too late. I can already read what it says: Happy 1-Year Anniversary, Dynasty!
It’s an idiotic gesture—one that I squashed as soon as I saw the congratulatory email go out this morning. True, it’s been a year since the company went public. And, yes, it’s been a successful year. We’ve smashed right through every one of our goals and milestones.
But celebrating a period of time rubs me the wrong way. I’m not done growing this company, and I’m definitely not about to sit back and jerk off over some arbitrary marking of time. There’s way too much to do for that.
I stride toward my office, employees scattering in front of me. I didn’t mince my words when I hit the “reply all” button to the companywide congratulations email. I expect everyone to treat today like any other day, and I don’t need people kissing my ass more than usual just because we’ve had a good year.
It wasn’t our best year, and until I feel satisfied that we’ve achieved that, I see no reason to celebrate. My two best friends joke that world domination is my ultimate goal for Dynasty, but they’re honestly not far off.
My secretary has already unlocked my office, but Beth isn’t at her desk.
I’m sure she’s running around with everyone else trying to stash the evidence of the party they hoped to throw today. That’s fine. It gives me a minute to think before getting down to work—and to enjoy the view. My office is the quintessential corner suite, and it comes with a million-dollar vista of New York City. If I leaned over and looked down, the cars and people below would look like insects.
Sometimes it’s worth taking a moment to appreciate how far everything has come.
How far I’ve come.
I just don’t need any fucking cake.
My laptop chimes at my desk. During the walk from the executive reception area to my private office, I’ve already received more than ten messages. It takes my complete attention to stay on top of them.
I’m not a CEO who earns passive income, plays golf at some vapid resort every minute of every day, and gets fat. This is my company, and I’m invested in it completely.
This is my legacy.
And hers too, I remind myself, glancing at the photograph of my mother on my desk. Even if she’s not here to see it.
She smiles at me from the frame, her beautiful eyes squinting against the glint of the sun. It’s a family portrait, taken by a professional photographer I remember my parents hiring and flying out while we were on vacation in the Maldives. A younger version of me would’ve cut my asshole father out of the photo, but I prefer to keep him close.
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, and all of that.
Seeing his smug smirk every day reminds me that I’ve built all of this without him. In spite of him. And I don’t need a single thing from him.
“Mr. Wright.”
I glance up from my laptop—and my ruminating—to see Carol, my social media marketing director, knocking against the frame of my door. She’s dressed in her usual sleek blazer and pencil skirt, her makeup perfectly applied as always.
“It’s eight o’clock,” she says, but I’m already waving her in. “Have you had a chance to look at the numbers?”
“Saw them on the way over,” I answer, tapping at my phone. “Promising.”
“Absolutely,” she agrees. “If you want to peruse all of the surveys from the focus group, I’ll pull them and send them to you after this. You’re always talking ‘next best thing,’ and I think this is it.”
“It’s a direction that makes sense,” I say—not just because it’s the direction I’ve chosen for Dynasty. “We’ve cornered the luxury market. Now it’s time to go after everything else.”
“I’m going to pull those surveys regardless,” Carol says, her black shoulder length bob shifting slightly as she tilts her head. “You’re going to love what some of the participants said about the equipment. I don’t think I’m paraphrasing, one of them actually said it’s the ‘fanciest fucking thing’ he’s ever worked out on.”
“I’m sure that will go over well on our social media.” I chuckle dryly. “Maybe you can put it on our next batch of T-shirts.”
