“Everything and everyone is for sale,” he quips. “Name a price. I bet old Mel would take you up on that offer.”
He might if he hadn’t sold the enterprise to Marks Creative several years ago.
Sean may have caught me reading a story about a social media star I’ve never heard of and the hideous ring her athlete boyfriend bought her, but I have no interest in any of those people.
I’m curious about the woman who penned that piece.
Juliet Bardin.
I saved her from being mugged last week, and then I took the necessary steps to keep my name out of that complication.
It was the right move considering the fact that Miss Bardin earns a living reporting on the lives of people in the public eye, and I work very hard to avoid the spotlight.
Chapter Seven
Kavan
I’m not a man who permits anyone to back him into a corner.
I’m always aware of my surroundings, including my position now.
Nigel Rothe, my late father’s right-hand man and current personal advisor to me, is standing in front of my desk with his gaze trained on one of the many windows in my office that overlooks Manhattan.
“The board isn’t going to drop this, Mr. Bane.”
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve insisted that he call me by my first name. Nigel is old school and loyal to his core.
He worked for my father for many years, and as soon as I took the reins of the company, he accepted the advisor position. It’s impossible for me to remember a time when Nigel wasn’t a prominent part of my life.
He’s right about the board of directors.
I spent the bulk of the afternoon in a meeting with the group. Each of them took their turn explaining what they perceived as the root cause of the declining price of Bane Enterprises stock and the core reason Trade Minds backed out of our agreement.
I wasn’t surprised when every finger came back pointing at me.
All of the dozens of books written about me over the past few years that professed to contain ‘firsthand knowledge’ of my life or ‘gruesome (never before heard) details’ about the night the Bane family changed forever are bullshit.
That includes the one released just last week with the uninspired title of The Bad Bane. It’s currently topping every bestseller list.
Add that to the never-ending list of podcasts that have made a fortune focusing on me and the articles posted online written by supposed insiders, and I can see why the board views me as the issue.
“You don’t think that once the hype of this latest book dies down that they’ll retreat?” My question is rhetorical since stock prices have fallen steadily since I took on the position of CEO two years ago.
Nigel closes his eyes briefly. It’s a telltale sign that he’s drawing on the never-ending reservoir of patience that sits within him. “I know the board, sir. I’ve known some of them longer than…”
“I’ve been alive,” I interrupt. “I’m aware.”
“They sent me a private memo.” He taps the screen of his phone. “The shareholders made it very clear to the board that they want one thing.”
Nigel won’t go there. He refuses to, but I will, so I do. “They want a mea culpa for what happened in Miami. They want me to put all of my cards on the table.”
Nigel’s blue eyes scan my face in search of something. He won’t find whatever he’s looking for because I’ve learned how to bury the past in a grave so deep that it can never be unearthed by anyone.
“It’s a dark cloud that’s been hanging over Bane Enterprises for many years.” His voice has a tremor in it as he continues, “I do so wish you’d let me talk to the press or perhaps a ghostwriter. I can work on a memoir with someone under the guise that you wrote it, of course. That would clear all of this up, and I imagine a project like that would send stock prices on an upward trajectory.”
I shoot him a look that he knows all too well.
I’ve never told Nigel to shut the fuck up, but that look says what I can’t.
“The police then,” he rattles on. “They could handle revealing all to the press if I go to them with the information we’ve withheld.”
“Nigel.” His name comes out like a thinly veiled warning. “That’s not happening.”
He nods in agreement. “Very well, sir.”
I move to stand. Buttoning my suit jacket, I round my desk. “If anyone is going to speak to the press, it’ll be me.”
“You?” He doesn’t try to hide the surprise in his tone. “You swore never to speak of that night.”
“I’m not talking about that night.”
That fucking night when the world fell off its axis in the darkness with rain pouring down in buckets and the angry roar of thunder punctuating the moment.
“What then?”
“I will agree to speak to a journalist of my choosing about my vision for the company’s future,” I propose. “The board will see that the article will strengthen Bane’s position as a global brand, and it will quiet their fears that my past will continue to impact what my father worked so hard to build.”
Nigel studies me carefully as he pushes his wire-rimmed eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. “Drown out the past with the promise of a brighter undeniable tomorrow? That might work. I know a reporter with The Times. He’s very well respected. He’ll go deep, but you can warn him of the subjects that you feel are off-limits.”
I shake my head. “No. I have someone in mind.”
Someone I can easily guide to write an article that will not reveal anything beyond what I want.
I don’t need a seasoned journalist poking my brain with their manipulative questions. I have no doubt that I can navigate that with ease, but the last thing I want is a headline screaming about my refusal to answer anything.
If I control the narrative of the interview, I can finally shift the focus from my past to the company’s future.
It will change nothing for me, but perhaps, it will shake off some of the stigmas that have been haunting Bane Enterprises since I took over.
“May I ask who?” Nigel quizzes.
Now is not the time to tell him that my plan is for the article to appear in New York Viewpoint since I know that Thurston Marks, the owner of Marks Creative, would walk barefoot over hot coals to get an exclusive from me. Surely, he won’t have an issue with my choice of a journalist.
“Send a secret memo back to the board that I’m ready to sit down for a magazine article,” I accentuate the word secret because the concept is laughable. I’m aware of every electronic communication that takes place within this company. “Then we’ll begin the process of securing the journalist I have in mind.”
Journalist. Gossip Columnist. Reporter.
Whatever Juliet Bardin chooses to call herself is fine with me.
Her expertise is writing articles about the size of engagement rings.
I’m about to drop her into the middle of the ocean with a shark circling her. If she follows my rules, I won’t bite...hard.
Chapter Eight
Juliet
“Who wants to speak to me?” I ask Hugo as he stands in front of my desk.