8. Orion

8

ORION

I sat in the executive conference room on the 31st floor of Foster Real Estate. The table was an impressive single slab of walnut I had commissioned a few years ago, and it was far too large for our small group of four, but I hardly cared.

People often made the mistake of thinking good business was about decisions and deals. Those were part of it, but only just. Often, good business was about selling yourself. The way I dressed, the state of my building, the size of my conference tables, and even the look on my face—those could close deals through the sheer force of suggestion.

Good business was about having a wide and varied toolkit, along with the ability to choose the appropriate tool for the appropriate job.

The three employees I invited to this meeting were like tools in my toolkit, and each was here for a specific purpose today.

There was Roman, my cutthroat chief of acquisitions, who had been openly angling to fill the currently nonexistent roll of Vice President of Operations. Roman was lean and sharp-featured with dark wavy hair always pushed carefully back from his face. He dressed like old money in tailored Italian suits despite his middle-class background, and regularly proved to be one of my most valuable employees. His ability to consistently provide useful insights baffled me, because I knew the man was regularly out late after work distracting himself with women and parties.

There was Julian, the somewhat air-headed but surprisingly ambitious senior chief of marketing, who really only wanted a "fancier title, because he loves cool titles."

Last but not least, there was Moira, my senior client relations consultant. She wanted to graduate from delegating tasks among my employees to a more direct, hands-on role. Moira wanted to land deals, deal with clients herself, and, of course, collect the subsequent bonuses.

Knowing the aspirations of my employees was yet another tool. It was the carrot on the stick to drive them toward higher levels of productivity. Part of my job was pushing them until they found potential within themselves they didn't even know they had.

And what would I say to myself if I was my own boss? What would I think of Orion Foster, the employee, and his behavior the past few weeks?

The thought curled my lip in annoyance. I would say he's distracted by a needless cat and mouse game with a Hate Notes employee—that he's letting the irritating little woman infiltrate his thoughts and distract him from work. Worse, I would say he's in a critical period of potential growth for the company while his competitors are angling to get an edge, and his lack of focus shows a complete disregard for the good of the company.

The annoyingly accurate self-reflection didn’t help my growing headache. Worse, I hardly ever suffered from headaches—at least, I hadn’t before the damn woman in red entered my life. I was allergic to her and the bullshit she put me through each and every morning, from her made-up personalized notes she read from blank cards to the way she had begun using voices and delivering hate notes to me like she was auditioning for a role on Broadway.

I pulled my focus to the table, dimly aware that I hadn't even been listening to the chatter of my employees thus far.

"Alright," I said softly as I studied the map Roman had laid out on the table. He was to my right, while Julian and Moira sat to my left. "I see the old industrial park here is highlighted in green. Tell me more." I said.

"I've uncovered some information about these lots. Information that leads me to believe there may be an opportunity for Foster Real Estate to acquire all three."

That was enough to spike my heart rate. I didn't let my excitement show, but I lifted my eyes to meet his. "You're certain?"

Roman threaded his fingers and leaned forward, brow cocked dramatically. "Do old people love Bingo?"

"What?" Julian asked. "We were just talking about real estate. What do old people have to do with anything?"

"I'm trying to make a—" Roman began.

"And," Julian continued. "You really shouldn't call them 'old people.' That's so insensitive, man. Call them like... generously seasoned individuals." Julian spread his hands as if he was visualizing this in bright letters on a billboard somewhere. "Or maybe chronologically over-qualified? No... that's not good. Geriatric gladiators? Hmm. I'll workshop it with the team later."

"Anyway," Roman said with a sigh. "It's a saying.”

"That's a stupid saying," Moira said. Moira was twenty-eight, tall and imposing with sharp cheekbones and dark hair cut in a severe bob that matched her personality. Her entire wardrobe was made from shades of black and gray with the occasional touch of purple if she was feeling festive, and she wore the kind of stilettos that could double as weapons. The overall effect made her look like she'd be equally comfortable in a boardroom or a vampire coven.

Despite her dry, often grim sense of humor, I had to admit I appreciated her blunt approach. She was head of client relations, which was mostly an organizational role focused on assigning the right agents to communicate with clients. "Just like 'Roman makes milk curdle' isn't a saying."

Roman folded his arms and cocked his head in amusement. "Aww, upset that I never invite you out, Moira? All you have to do is ask. I could look online to see if there are any bars that allow vampires and ghouls before we get there. I'd hate for you to get turned away at the door."

"Cute," Moira said.

"You know," Julian tapped his chin as he frowned in thought. "I think Roman might be on to something. My grandma loves Bingo, and so does her best friend. That’s two out of three geriatric gladiators I know who love Bingo. Suspicious ." Even though Julian was by all accounts a marketing genius, he was honestly an airhead in most other areas of life and business. He looked the part too—tall and naturally athletic with thick blonde hair that fell to his chin, perpetually rumpled designer clothes, and the easy, white-toothed smiles of somebody who grew up surfing. The type who'd definitely been in a frat and still had the photos to prove it.

One of Julian’s hidden talents was diffusing tension between Roman and Moira, who often looked like they wanted to kill one another. In other words, Julian was currently present at this meeting because I knew he’d distract Roman and Moira from fighting too much.

"Let's focus on the task at hand," I said, my voice low but serious.

Roman, Julian, and Moira all straightened in their seats, eyes on me.

"You said we could acquire all these lots, Roman?" I asked, touching my fingertip to the map. "If you're right, this move would nearly double our footprint in Manhattan. Each of these lots is absolutely massive. We could fit two or three skyscrapers in this space... We would be in the green for years with projects like that."

"Possibly," Roman said carefully. "See, these lots currently house old factories that aren’t in use. A shoe factory, a leather factory, and a rubber factory, to be exact. The guy who owned them was named Marcellus Davenport. He was really hands-on and made millions during his life running these places. But he's old now."

"Generously seasoned?" Julian suggested.

Roman glared but continued. "Anyway, he's so generously seasoned that he is going to die soon, and he knows it. But the guy has no heirs. No family. If he died tomorrow, the land would pass to the city, which would probably use it for some public bullshit."

Julian shook his head in disapproval. "Civics aren't bullshit, man. Did you ride bullshit to the office today? Do you call bullshit for help when your house is on fire?"

"I paid my driver to bring me to work today," Roman said. "And my house has never been on fire."

"To our collective disappointment," Moira added.

"So he dies," I cut in. "And the land goes to the city. I'm assuming there's an 'unless' here."

"There is," Roman said. "I found a little legal loophole... If we play our cards right, we could become the default inheritors of those lots. All we would need to do is wait for this guy to croak and?—"

"Croak?" Julian said, throwing up his hands. "We wait for him to transition from life to death gently. Kick his last can. Leave his meat sack behind."

"Those are all terrible," Moira said.

"What is the loophole?" I asked.

"In the absence of heirs and inheritors, the property would pass to a property management company... So if we can convince him to let us spruce up the places in any way, we would become the de facto inheritors of the property when he leaves his meat sack behind."

"That seems kind of immoral," Julian said. "Like we're tricking this old man into leaving us his factories?"

Moira squinted. "You think he'll care if his factories go to us or the city when he's dead?"

"He could," Julian said. "I don't know about you, but I have no interest in being haunted. I once took a ghost tour in St. Augustine and went to this lighthouse. I swear on my nana I saw a ghost. Granted, there was some drinking involved, but maybe that just opened up my senses to the other side, you know?"

"No," Moira said. "We don't know."

"Enough," I said. "I want this to become our top priority. Roman, get with legal and make sure this loophole is iron-clad. I don't want to pursue this only to find out it won't hold up in court. Moira, I want you to take the next week to find the right person to meet with this old guy. I need somebody who can charm him. Somebody who can convince him this is something he needs. Julian, you're going to work up a project proposal. Give Moira a plan of action to send with the person she chooses—sell him on why he needs us to work for him on this project. Understood?"

Roman and Moira simply nodded, both of their eyes lit with obvious hunger and excitement at the opportunity to prove themselves. Julian sat back in his chair, face grim. "Damn it. I'm going to get haunted for this, aren't I?"

As they stood to leave, my phone buzzed. A text from Patricia Rosh, the CEO of Hate Notes…

Patricia: My new girl seems to be your match, doesn’t she? Too much integrity to take your bribes? Or have you simply given up trying to win?

I curled my lip in annoyance. The damn woman had my number because of Remmy, who thought it would be funny for us to communicate. So far, the communications were entirely one-sided, but it irked me every time Rosh texted me to gloat.

"Sir?" Julian lingered in the doorway. "Just... hypothetically, if Mr. Davenport's ghost did come after us, would that be covered under our current insurance policy?"

"Out," I said, but found myself fighting a smile. Strange. I never used to find Julian's nonsense amusing.

Then again, I never used to find much of anything amusing until lately.

I blamed my own ghost in red for that. Julian may be worried about getting haunted by the ghost of Marcellus Davenport, but my haunting was very real. A small, fiery woman in red waited outside my building for me every day. Every day, she became better at pushing my buttons and getting under my skin. Every day, she walked farther over the line.

The worst part of all?

There was an entirely irrational, entirely stupid part of me that looked forward to our brief interactions. Interacting with Ember was different. At times, I felt like an apex predator, feared and respected to such a degree that nobody dared look me in the eye or speak their mind to me. Ember, on the other hand, had no such fear. She stared up at me with defiance and mischief, and because of that, our interactions were of a flavor I couldn’t find anywhere else.

And yet they were a distraction. She was a mind virus that was taking root somewhere deep in my brain and corrupting my ability to focus on what mattered most.

With some effort, I pushed the small woman from my thoughts and brought my attention back to this new and exciting opportunity.

“Marcellus Davenport,” I mused aloud. But even as I considered the implications of landing such a massive opportunity, Ember began slipping back into my thoughts again and again.

I needed to do something about her. If only I knew what.