Chapter 70 - 69 A Seat At The Table
Ambition tastes exactly like expensive jasmine tea and imminent victory.
I sit perfectly still in the plush leather chair inside Professor Chase’s private study and think of the promise I made to Julian.
"I told you I’d take care of it. We’re going to win."
I need to make sure I fulfill that promise so he doesn’t ever think of leaving me. I need to make sure Julian never regrets his decision of choosing me over that wench called Emily. And that’s why I’m putting all my effort into this, regardless of the looming threat of Silas Hunt over our family and the amount of money we owe him.
The mahogany desk in the office reflects the warm, yellow light of a small reading lamp. The rich smell of old paper and roasted tea leaves fills the tight space. I keep my posture rigid and professional. I focus entirely on the sleek black speakerphone sitting between us.
“So what exactly can you do for us, Doctor Aris?” Professor Chase says. “I need you to be as honest and straight with me as possible. How high is the probability of securing this deal for the person I’m recommending.”
This is the part of Professor Chase that I’ve always admired. He was a man who loved to deal with things head on and straight to the point. He didn’t like to beat around the bush or try to hide his agenda.
"I cannot offer a concrete guarantee, Chase," Dr. Aris says. The audio is slightly distorted, but the authority in the older man’s voice remains clear even through the phone. I imagine the man to be just as disciplined as the professor. "The final decision rests entirely with Dr. Grayson. The developer holds all the cards in this negotiation.”
“Okay. So you can’t make any promises,” the professor replies.
“I can’t. But I can promise to put in a very strong word for Julian, though. I can do that for you."
Professor Chase frowns. He pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. He crosses his arms over his beige knit cardigan.
"If you ask me, this Dr. Grayson is already acting too high and mighty," Professor Chase says. Disdain drips from his words. "Hiding behind closed doors. Refusing basic professional courtesy. Refusing to meet with established medical peers. It borders on sheer arrogance and it’s not the way we do this in the academic space."
"I can assure you professor that this has nothing to do with arrogance," Dr. Aris counters immediately. The deep respect in the cardiologist’s tone is undeniable. "Mark my words, Professor Chase. Within ten years, the entire pharmaceutical industry will revere the name Dr. Grayson. The sheer genius behind the SN1818 formula justifies the isolation. We are dealing with a prodigy."
Professor Chase raises a gray eyebrow. His previous annoyance morphs rapidly into genuine curiosity. It shows that he values the Doctor’s words. He leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk. "Now you have my attention. I look forward to seeing this genius for myself."
"Have Julian visit the research institute tomorrow at noon," Dr. Aris instructs. "We will discuss the preliminary collaboration details then. Goodnight."
The call ends with a sharp click.
I stand up and button my navy suit jacket. A small, sharp knot of disappointment settles in my gut. I wanted an absolute guarantee tonight. I wanted the contract drafted and signed before any competitors could even formulate a bid.
I look towards Julian who has been sitting quietly through the whole process. To my surprise, he doesn’t look sad or disappointed. He looks almost pleased.
JULIAN
The disappointment on Chloe’s face is obvious but I don’t share the sentiment.
Dr. Aris just praised my company to the highest degree. Not only did he do that, he invited me directly to the institute. Thorne Medical Corporation is officially at the front of the line. My confidence surges rapidly. I have the resources to buy out Dr. Grayson. I just need to get in the room and now, not only has the door to the room been opened for me, but I’ve also been offered a seat at the table.
We say our polite goodbyes. Chloe and I walk out of the brick house into the warm night. The streetlights illuminate the quiet, upscale neighborhood.
With all that was going on, I didn’t realize that Chloe looked so stunning tonight. Her tight red designer dress hugs her curves perfectly. Her perfectly styled hair catches the golden light from the streetlamps.
She walks beside me and I can see that she’s still disappointed. But she doesn’t know how happy she has made me with her efforts.
The sharp sound of her heels echoes on the concrete sidewalk. She is vain and manipulative, but her connections just handed me the keys to a medical empire. She is incredibly useful.
We reach my luxury sedan. I grab her narrow waist. I pull her flush against my chest and crash my lips down onto hers.
She responds instantly. Her hands tangle in my styled hair. Her perfume is sweet and intoxicating. She kisses me back with greedy, desperate enthusiasm.
"Thank you," I whisper against her mouth. I pull back just enough to look into her dark eyes. "You made this happen. You are incredible."
Chloe smiles. A victorious gleam shines in her eyes. "You deserve this, Julian. You are brilliant. You are going to control the biggest medical breakthrough of our generation. We are going to rule this city."
Her praise feeds my ego perfectly. She knows exactly what to say. I dip my head and kiss her again. The taste of victory is the taste of her lips.
EMILY
Holding a heavy pistol steady requires muscles I never knew existed.
My arms shake violently. The fierce recoil from the last shot reverberates straight up my forearms and settles deep into my shoulder joints. I lower the black training weapon and set it carefully on the metal table. Empty brass shell casings litter the concrete floor around my feet. The acrid, biting smell of gunpowder completely saturates the air in the cellar armory.
Leo stands three feet away. His dark security suit remains immaculate. His broad shoulders tense as he watches me massage my aching biceps.
"You are pushing past the point of productive fatigue," Leo says. He steps forward and ejects the empty magazine from my pistol. "Your muscle control is degrading rapidly. This level of intensity is excessive for a pregnant woman. We need to reduce your hours immediately."
I wipe the heavy sweat from my forehead with a clean white towel. My chest heaves with exhaustion. The bandages on my hands are damp and dirty.
"I am perfectly fine, Leo." I drop the towel onto the table. I refuse to back down. "Do not reduce the intensity. I need to be ready for anything."
Leo studies my flushed face. He reads the stubborn resolve anchoring my posture. He sighs loudly.
"I will not reduce the overall intensity," Leo concedes. "But I will adjust the daily mechanics. We do shooting practice in the mornings when your stabilizers are fresh. We switch to physical conditioning and situational awareness in the afternoons. You need the variety to prevent a repetitive strain injury."
I nod in agreement. It is a highly logical compromise. "Thank you, Leo. I genuinely appreciate your help and your patience."
We leave the shooting range together. The concrete stairs feel significantly steeper than usual. My legs protest every single step. We part ways at the top of the cellar entrance.
I walk straight to the master suite. My entire body craves a scalding hot bath. I check the antique grandfather clock in the main hallway. Alistair usually returns from the corporate headquarters in exactly forty-five minutes. I have plenty of time to clean up.
I enter the massive, marble-tiled bathroom attached to our bedroom. I strip off my sweaty training clothes and drop them into the laundry hamper. I turn the gold-plated faucets. I fill the massive tub with steaming water and pour in a generous amount of lavender bath oil.
I step into the water and sink down up to my chin. The intense heat instantly attacks the tight, painful knots in my shoulders and lower back. I close my eyes. I let the warmth soak into my aching muscles. The quiet luxury of the bathroom is a jarring contrast to the violent noise of the shooting range.
I time my bath perfectly. Thirty minutes of soaking. Ten minutes to dry off and dress.
I pull the plug and step out of the tub. I wrap a thick, white cotton robe tightly around my waist and secure the belt. I rub a smaller towel through my wet hair, leaving the dark strands damp and messy.
I push the bathroom door open. I step out into the private living area of the master suite.
I freeze in my tracks.
Alistair is sitting on the long leather sofa.
He is early. He wears his usual immaculate charcoal suit, but he has discarded the silk tie. The top two buttons of his crisp white dress shirt are undone. The casual state of his clothes drastically contrasts with the rigid, terrifying posture of his entire body.
He sits perfectly straight. His large hands rest flat against his knees. He stares straight ahead at the blank television screen mounted on the wall. His jaw is locked so tight the muscles jump rapidly under his tanned skin. The air in the room is heavy and incredibly suffocating.
"Good evening," I say. I keep my voice light and steady.
Alistair does not move a single muscle. He does not blink. He completely ignores my greeting.
I take a tentative step forward. The plush carpet absorbs the sound of my bare feet. I clutch the overlapping edges of my cotton robe.
"Alistair?" I try again. I take another small step toward the center of the room. "Are you alright?"
He slowly turns his head.
His dark eyes lock onto mine. The absolute, freezing cold radiating from his stare hits me like a physical blow. The usual stoic calm is entirely gone. A dangerous, tightly contained fury replaces it.
A sudden shiver runs straight down my spine. The lingering heat from my bath instantly vanishes, replaced by a deep chill. My throat goes completely dry. I swallow hard and force myself to maintain eye contact.
"Is something wrong?" I ask.