Tarian.
Later.
It’s two o’clock when the intercom on my desk buzzes.
“Sir, your two o’clock is here,” my secretary announces.
“Good.
Send the person in.” My voice is clipped and controlled.
I lean back, smooth my burgundy suit jacket and straighten my tie.
I barely had time to rush back from the docks, shower, and pull something decent from my office closet before positioning myself behind my desk like the polished corporate heir everyone expects me to be.
Since then I’ve buried myself in pending work, anything productive to keep my hands and mind busy.
I refused to go home earlier.
I didn’t want to breathe in the stale tension that clings to that house like mold.
Lavish.
Expensive.
Purchased with my money, yet nothing about it feels like home.
Our walls are padded with silence, resentment, and arguments that never find resolution.
A knock pulls me from my thoughts.
Then, at the same time, my phone vibrates across the desk.
“Come in,” I call, already reaching for the phone.
A text flashes across my phone screen:
Damon Cooper: Hey dude.
Dinner tonight?
New restaurant downtown.
Thought you, my sister, Mina and I could check it out.
I exhale slowly.
Damon, my brother-in-law.
We got along well enough after the engagement was announced.
Became best friends even.
Now he tries too hard to fix what’s clearly fractured in my marriage to his sister.
Me: Regretfully, I’ll have to pass.
Viola and I are having dinner with my parents tonight.
“Good afternoon, Mr.
Sawyer.”
I look up.
A tall man stands before me.
Stern posture, tablet in hand, suit immaculate.
He smells like ambition and expensive cologne.
“Good afternoon, Mr…?”
“Shaw.
Lar Shaw.” He corrects smoothly.
I gesture to the chair opposite me and finish sending the reply before setting my phone aside.
“So, Mr.
Shaw, what can Sawyer Fishing do for you today?” I ask, polite but guarded.
He smiles, confidently.
“Actually, Mr.
Sawyer, it’s what we can do for you.”
My brow lifts, curiosity aligning with mild irritation.
“And how do you mean?”
“My employer is prepared to financially support the expansion of your company both locally and internationally.”
I study him, expression neutral.
“I already have investors.
Silent and otherwise.”
“Yes,” he agrees quickly, “But what we offer is… juicier.”
A soft laugh escapes me.
“How so?”
“While your current investors both silent and otherwise, offer minimal support and demand large returns, my employer is willing to give everything, and take very little.”
I still.
That is a strategic bait.
Someone’s done research.
Private research.
Our financial model isn’t public.
We keep our books close.
My family keeps a lot close.
Including the reasons behind the never ending pressure for me to produce a son.
My attention slips for all of half a second but Shaw notices.
His gaze flickers with curiosity.
I lean back, steepling my fingers.
“I must commend your research,” I say, voice low.
He waits like he expects me to fold.
I don’t.
“I prefer relationships with my investors,” I continue.
“Personal understanding.
Lunch.
Dinner.
A barbeque.
Whatever.
Ask your employer to meet me.
Then we’ll talk.”
His jaw tightens.
He almost loses his polished exterior.
“But, Mr.
Sawyer… My boss is a wealthy and powerful woman.
She’s not patient with business delays.
She prefers things handled promptly.”
A chill moves through me.
Not fear, no, but awareness.
Murieann Amran.
Elusive billionaire.
CEO of Elianor Pearls.
A woman whose face is always hidden behind oversized hats and carefully orchestrated angles in every media photo.
A ghost in designer heels.
And apparently she wants to do business with me.
“If Murieann Amran wants a deal with me,” I say slowly, voice dropping into ice, “Then she can walk into my office herself.
Face to face.
Otherwise, she can take her money elsewhere.”
His façade fractures.
His eyes shift with something like fear.
Fear of her?
I wonder.
I find that interesting.
He rises stiffly.
“Very well.
I’ll deliver your message, Mr.
Sawyer.
Good day.”
He leaves quickly like the air has teeth.
I’m left wondering not if she’ll agree but how soon she’ll strike back.
***
Night.
Sawyer Residence, Irvington Village, New York.
Dinner feels like a funeral.
Crystal glasses.
Fine china.
Candlelight.
Silence sharp enough to cut veins.
My parents, Viola, Me.
Four bodies seated around a table that cost enough to feed a village, yet none of us can swallow peace.
Earlier, while getting ready, Viola exploded again.
“I’m telling them tonight,” she cried.
“I’m telling your parents you demanded a divorce.”
Her voice sliced through the room.
I faced away from her, counting breaths through clenched teeth.
“Demanded is a strong word, Viola,” I muttered, turning to face her.
“We’re not pretending for me.
We’re doing it to protect your reputation.
What people will say if they found out I divorced you instead…”
“I Don’t Care!” she screamed.
“Let them find out!
I won’t live this lie anymore.”
She stormed out, leaving accusations and heartbreak hanging my the doorway.
The drive here was suffocating, silent and heavy.
Now, she sits across from me, fork untouched.
My father breaks first.
“How was the office today, son?”
I look up.
Viola’s staring at me, rage, grief, exhaustion burning through her watery eyes.
My chest tightens.
“Work was fine,” I answer softly.
My father nods proudly.
“Elianor Pearls contacted us today,” I add.
“They want to become investors.”
His face lights up with hope, pride, greed.
“That’s incredible news,” he beams.
“That company is worth millions.
The owner, elusive or not,would elevate our family name.
Our brand.”
My stomach twists.
“So?
Did you accept?” He asks eagerly.
I hesitate.
“No.
I asked to meet first.”
Silence hits the table violent and sudden.
My father goes pale like poison just burned down his throat.