Page 4

"Except I’m bringing opportunities, not taking them away," I snap, the heat of my frustration simmering beneath my skin.
"Opportunities they might not see, or might not believe in," Marcus points out, his voice even. "Sometimes people need to see the promise of tomorrow in the reality of today."
I sink back into the plush leather seat, staring out the window at the blur of leafless trees racing by. Memories creep up, uninvited—ice-cold ponds, the scrape of skates, the hollow promise of 'forever' that never came. The sting of disappointment is sharp, even now.
"Thanks, Marcus," I say after a beat, softer than I mean to.
I swipe open my phone, the screen illuminating a string of unread emails. The subject lines are a chorus of concern, each one echoing the last with investors' anxiety over the news reports they’ve seen. My thumb hovers, hesitating before I tap into the storm.
"Victor," one starts, "seen the news? We need to talk about public perception ASAP." Another chimes in, "This isn’t what we signed up for. How do you plan to handle this?"
"Everything is under control," I type back, fingers flying over the virtual keys. "We’ll turn this around by the board meeting. No opposition will stand in our way." Empty promises? Maybe. But I’ll move heaven and earth to make them true.
Sent. Done. Now, onto damage control.
I dial my office line.
"Hey, it’s Victor," I say the instant Angela, my assistant, answers. "I need the PR team on their A-game. I want strategies for handling this mess waiting on my desk when I get back."
"Of course, Victor. They’re already brainstorming," she assures me, her voice all business.
"Good. Make sure they think outside the box. We can’t afford cookie-cutter fixes here. This needs... finesse." My mind races—there has to be a way to spin this, to show people the good that can come from change.
"Understood. Anything else?" Angela asks, ready to jot down any command I throw at her.
"Make it clear, Angela. This isn’t just another project. It’s personal. I want that message front and center." There’s a part of me that flinches saying it out loud, admitting the tie between this development and my own battered past.
"Personal. Got it," she confirms. "Anything about your background?"
"Just... keep it vague. Enough to show I’m not some heartless tycoon." The words taste bitter, but if my story can win this, then maybe those years weren’t for nothing.
"Will do. See you soon, Victor."
"Thanks." And with that, I hang up, leaning my head against the cool car window. It’s time to play the game, to dance the dance. For once, my past isn’t a weakness. Maybe, it’s my ace in the hole.
Chapter Three
Victor
Marcus pullsthe car to the front of my office building, the setting sun casting a glare on the polished surface that does little to shield me from the chaos waiting outside. The moment I step out, it hits me like an icy gust—the persistent hum of questions tossed in the air by the swarm of reporters encircling the entrance.
Apparently, the press followed me all the way to Boston.
"Mr. Stone! Can we get a minute?" one of them calls out, shoving a recorder in my face.
"Victor, what's your comment on the new development in Worcester?" another asks, eager for a slice of controversy.
I go cold this time, angry that I'm having to deal with this back in Boston now, too. "No comment," I snap, my voice as cutting as the winter wind that used to whip across the frozen pond where I learned to skate and, ironically, trust—a lesson quickly unlearned.
Pushing my way through, I don't bother with pleasantries or false promises. Reporters only want something from you, and once they've got it, you're yesterday's news. I'm not interested in playing their games twice in one day.
The lobby is my respite, the buzz from outside dying down as the door swings shut behind me. I make my way up the elevator to the top floor, and as I step out, Angela's right there, waiting. She's been at my side in this business long enough to read my moods like headlines.
"Evening, Victor," she greets me, her voice carrying that steady reassurance that's weathered countless storms.
"Angela," I nod, not breaking stride. "The PR proposals—are they on my desk?"
"Already there," she confirms, her eyes following me with a knowing glint. She doesn't need to ask how the gauntlet went; the tight set of my jaw tells her everything.