Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

SIMON

T oday had been a relentless slog. I'd been trapped in business meetings from dawn till dusk, dealing with a massive fuck-up at one of my oil refineries. Not good. The public backlash would be a nightmare once the media got hold of it.

I had been sitting through PR meetings with department heads, experts, and, of course, my environmental team.

I rubbed my temples, wishing I could go back to yesterday and somehow prevent this shitstorm. There had been an oil spill. Every oil company's biggest fear.

My board of directors wanted me to keep it hush-hush, but my PR rep thought that was a terrible call.

"We have to show you in action," she insisted. "Pretending this didn't happen isn't going to make it go away."

"We don't need to shine a spotlight on it," one of the board members said. "If Simon goes on TV and talks about it, it's a top news story. Right now, it's on the third or fourth page."

"We have to show him making decisions and leading without hesitation. It's going to come out—period. The public needs to trust Simon. If he is out there fixing what is obviously a mistake, they are going to be more likely to forgive him. No one likes to be told they aren't seeing what they are seeing. Denying it or hiding the accident ruins his credibility. They will come for us."

I sat back, listening to the many opinions. I found myself admiring my PR rep's tenacity. She was a lot like Rylee. I wondered if she had gotten the flowers. Did she like them? Did she understand the sentiment or was it too much? I knew it was a bold move to send her flowers, but I really wanted to show her how much I appreciated her company. She made what probably would have been a really shitty day into a good one.

"We can't blast our name all over the news!"

"That's enough," I said firmly.

This was my world, my domain, and even though this was the worst-case scenario, I knew I had to lead my company through it.

"We're going with a press release. We'll issue a public apology to get out ahead of the story. I don't want this to look like we're hiding. We fucked up. We clean it up. We own it. It will be worse if there's some big bombshell news report. That will just get everyone digging into our company. I trust I am making myself clear?" I added, looking at each member of the board in turn. There were some reluctant nods, but overall, they seemed to understand. They feared the public backlash as much as I did.

After the meeting, I retreated to my office and stared blankly at the papers on my desk. I knew there was a lot more work to be done, but my mind kept wandering back to Rylee. Had she seen my gesture as an overstep? Or had she appreciated it for what I meant it to be—an apology and sign of my admiration?

I took a moment to just breathe. My head was pounding. I wanted a stiff drink and a soak in the hot tub. This was a fucking nightmare.

There was a knock on the door. I wished I could pretend I left. "Come in!"

Jamie, the head of PR, came in. "Sorry," she said, grimacing. "I know you don't want to see me, but I wanted to run the statement by you."

"You already have it?"

She smiled. "We've been working on it all day," she said.

"That was presumptuous."

"I knew you would make the right decision, and this is the right thing to do. This will keep our heads above water. The tsunami is still coming, but we're going to be better off getting ahead of it."

"I believe you," I sighed. "What do you have?"

Jamie handed me a sheet of paper. The letterhead bore our company logo and my name beneath it. As I read through the words, I found myself silently acknowledging that Jamie was right on the money. The draft was respectful, concise, and balanced. It addressed the issue without delving into self-pity or blame-shifting. It spoke of our commitment to resolve the issue expediently and keep the public in the loop.

"This is all right," I conceded, handing her back the paper. It wasn't just alright. It was perfect. "Revise this statement slightly—mention our immediate steps for environmental restoration. Then release it to the press."

Jamie smiled. "I will. I've arranged for a very small press conference."

I groaned, dreading the idea of getting in front of the cameras. "When?"

"Two hours. I've sent out for a blue tie. Eat. Drink some water. You look tired."

"I've been sitting here for hours." I sighed. "Yeah, I'm a little tired."

"I understand." She nodded. "We've got food, caffeine, and hair and makeup on the way in."

It wasn't like I could argue with her. I paid her a lot of money to guide me through disasters like this.

"Alright," I conceded, pushing my unruly hair back from my forehead. "Do your magic."

Jamie gave me a soft, encouraging pat on the shoulder before she left to carry out her duties. Alone again in my office, I slumped back in my chair and glanced at the clock. Two hours didn't seem like nearly enough time to prepare myself for the onslaught of questions and judgment that awaited me.

My gaze wandered to the picture frame that sat at the edge of my mahogany desk. It was a black-and-white photo of me with my father, right after he had handed over the reins of the company to me. I remembered the day the picture was taken. We never would have thought I would be taking over the company a year later. I'd been thrust into it because of lineage, not aptitude.

I ran my fingers over the glass. I missed him terribly—missed his wisdom, his patience, and his ability to make tough decisions look easy. I felt like I didn't get enough time to learn from him. I wished he was here to tell me what to do.

Food was delivered, but I wasn't hungry. I forced myself to take a few bites, drank some water, and then for good measure slammed a Red Bull.

I changed ties and sat while a professional worked her magic to make me look less tired. As the makeup artist gently powdered my face, I stole another lingering glance at the photo. My father. He never needed this makeup nonsense, never let stress weigh him down.

With barely a few minutes left for the press conference, the stylist swiftly finished her work and stepped away, examining me critically through her thick glasses. "You clean up rather nicely," she commented.

I managed a faint smile at her statement. "Thanks."

Soon I found myself in a room full of reporters chomping at the bit to break the news. "Thank you for coming," I started. "There has been a spill at a refinery. Production has been shut down." I didn't tell them it was costing me about two point five million a day. "We are focusing all of our resources on the cleanup effort. I will be heading to the Houston refinery tonight to join the team there. I will have the situation under control as soon as possible. We are doing all we can to mitigate the damages. We are all committed to learn from this incident. There will be new training implemented and a thorough investigation to ensure this never happens again."

I ended the press conference, even though reporters were still shouting questions at me. Jamie was waving me off. I couldn't be trusted to not say the wrong thing. That was what Jamie was paid to do. She would field questions and provide the right answers that wouldn't land us in hotter water than we already were.

I was ushered out the service entrance. My car had been brought around. Jamie was my diversion. We were hoping to give me a good thirty-minute head start back to Houston.

I pulled at the tie, suddenly feeling like I was being choked out. While I drove, I was on the phone with my assistant, pushing back meetings and revising my schedule. I made some calls to my ground crew in Houston to get updates. The spill had been stopped, finally, after thousands of gallons of oil were lost. The mess was pretty large scale. I swallowed the curses that wanted to escape and told the ground crew we would handle it. Head down. Work hard. We could all rest later. I assured them I'd have their backs for the community wrath that was sure to descend upon them.

I had barely ended one call when my phone rang. It was my mother.

Shit.

"Hi, Mom."

"Hello, Simon," she said. "I was calling to make sure you were coming to the barbecue tomorrow."

"Mom, no. I'm on my way back to Houston."

"What? You didn't even say goodbye."

"Have you seen the mess in the news?" I asked. "I'm up to my eyeballs in trouble."

"Don't you have people to handle that for you?" she asked, as if it was the most obvious solution.

"Mom, I need to be there," I said. "I'm the head of the company. I have to be out there."

"Fine, but I really wish you would be here ," she said.

"I'm sorry, Mom. But this is something I have to handle. There is a lot riding on this."

"Fine, fine."

When the call ended, I felt torn, but I knew this was the right thing. I couldn't leave my men hanging. Even if I couldn't get down in the muck with them, at least I could place myself between them and the media and locals who would be at the barricades yelling bloody murder. I'd be their punching bag. Someone had to be. I was the head of the company. Ultimately, the buck stopped with me.

I didn't have time to dwell on anything. Jamie called.

"Are you on your way?" she asked.

"Yep, what's up? How bad was it?"

"Rough," she replied, her voice carrying the tension of the situation. "We've got angry shareholders and environmental activists coming for blood. The press conference quelled some of the noise—for now."

I scrubbed a hand over my face. "Great, just what I need." The last thing I needed was shareholders pulling out their support and environmentalists painting us as villains.

"Simon." Jamie's voice softened, a rare occurrence that hinted at genuine concern. "You should consider staying in a hotel tonight. You need to rest before diving into that mess. There are going to be protesters at your house and the office."

"You're telling me to run," I said.

"I'm telling you to lay low." She sighed. "At least for a couple of days. There are going to be reporters. I don't want to risk you saying the wrong thing or losing your cool. And they will push you. They will throw stuff at you, and they might even try to hurt you."

"Alright, Jamie." I gave in, rubbing my temples. "I'll take your advice."

After the call ended, I called my assistant and asked her to make arrangements for a hotel under a pseudonym.

The drive to Houston felt like a march to war. My thoughts were a whirlwind of strategies, damage control plans, and concerns for my team on the ground. This wasn't just about oil or money. It was about people. My people. They were counting on me, and I wasn't going to let them down. We weren't going to go broke by any means, but we were going to be carrying a black mark for a while. The next few weeks were going to be hell. I just hoped we could get shit cleaned up and the damage wasn't too extensive.