Page 16 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter thirteen

Cali

" I f you'd just let me finish—" I start, my patience fraying dangerously thin, but Jackson—who I'd mistakenly thought would be on my side after our brief moment in the elevator—cuts me off sharply.

"No." He leans forward, eyes narrowed, voice dripping disdain. "You're new here, sweetheart, so sit back and learn something. You admitted we're the experienced ones, maybe you should start taking notes."

My jaw clenches so hard pain shoots down my neck. "Excuse me?"

The rest of the board continues squabbling like children over their precious fleet of jets, blind to the bigger picture I'm laying out. Too wrapped up in their egos to see what's right in front of them .

But fine.

If they want drama, I'll fucking deliver.

Slowly, deliberately, I rise from my chair, gripping the heavy wooden back—it’s not even a damn rolling one—and drag it across the polished floor. The grating screech slices cleanly through their petty arguments, snapping the room into dead silence.

Jackson stiffens, blotchy red climbing his neck. Several board members look at me warily, caught off guard. Good. Let them feel unsettled. Let them realize I won’t sit back and quietly fade into the wallpaper.

I step aside, swipe my screen, and project my presentation onto the wall.

"Clearly, we all need a refresher on basic meeting etiquette," I say, voice calm but razor-sharp beneath the surface. "When someone's presenting, the expectation is that everyone listens. You have questions, notes, concerns—write them down. We'll address them when I'm finished. Like adults."

Mr. Sinclair offers a tight nod, but Jackson, still riding high on his own ego, scoffs. "And why exactly should we—"

"Interesting," I interrupt smoothly, feigning surprise. "I distinctly remember learning back in elementary school to raise my hand when I wanted to speak. Should we bring that practice back, Jackson? It might help keep our meetings from dragging into the next millennium."

A few stifled laughs slip out around the table.

Jackson's face darkens, jaw set tight enough to break teeth, as he grudgingly sinks back into his seat.

This isn't the playground he thinks it is, and I'm not here to play nice.

I draw in a slow breath, bracing myself.

Then I dive right into the numbers, cutting through the bullshit, making it impossible for them to deny the sheer wastefulness of a private fleet we don't even need. I walk them through it—step by step—showing exactly how streamlining will free up resources, not just for the company’s bottom line, but for them, personally.

Expanded PTO. More flexible hours. Longer, well-earned vacations.

The silence that follows sits heavy, thick enough to choke on, and doubt tries to claw its way through my armor. Did I push too far?

Then Mr. Sinclair clears his throat, breaking the tension. "You mentioned something about a charity initiative?" His tone remains even, but the spark of interest is unmistakable.

I latch onto that lifeline without hesitation.

"Yes. Corporate donations offer tax advantages, yes, but they also bolster our public image—crucial as we move forward.

" I pause, meeting each of their eyes, holding their attention. "But it’s more than money. People today aren’t just chasing paychecks—they want purpose.

To be part of something bigger than themselves. We can give them that."

I let the words settle, then continue, my voice steady.

"I propose we start with local animal shelters. Everyone loves dogs. It’s an easy cause to rally behind.

The sale of the jet fleet would fund the program, and we can reinvest part of our savings to keep it going.

To show our genuine commitment, I'll personally match donations. "

Jackson scoffs loudly, cutting through the room. "Oh, so now you’re playing the hero? You get to swoop in and pretend you're some savior?"

Before I can fire back, Mr. Sinclair’s cane slams against the floor, echoing sharply, silencing Jackson.

"I like it," Sinclair states firmly, his voice resonating louder than any insult Jackson could throw.

"Those jets have been bleeding us dry for years.

If it were solely up to me, we'd sell off at least two. "

His approval shifts the entire room, murmurs of agreement rising around us .

Across the table, Jackson looks like he's about to choke on his tongue.

My eyes lock back onto him, unwavering. "Jackson," I say, keeping my voice firm yet calm, "if you have concerns, now’s the time. If I'm missing something, speak up. I'm not here to throw my weight around or make reckless moves, I want what's best for this company. For all of us."

Mr. Sinclair shifts slightly, a flicker of approval brightening his usually stern gaze. Even Mr. Jameson, who’s been sizing me up since day one, leans back in his chair, something dangerously close to respect crossing his features.

But Jackson isn’t ready to let go of his grudge, his resentment lingering like smoke after a fire. He stares me down, eyes sharp with challenge. "You think you can just waltz in here and overhaul everything we've built? Like our methods suddenly need your magic touch?"

I don't blink, don’t back down. I meet his glare head-on. "The parts of this company that work? They work damn well. We promote from within, that’s a strength. Our relationships are strong because of the work you and your managers have done. Trust me, I value that. And I value you."

His spine stiffens just slightly, like he hadn’t expected acknowledgment. Good.

"But let's be honest," I continue smoothly, my tone steady and unyielding. "We can still do better. I'm not here to tear apart what you’ve built—I'm here to secure it. To cut waste and reinvest in our people. To create stability that outlasts any one of us."

Silence stretches, my words hanging heavy in the room.

Jackson lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. This time, though, he doesn't push back.

And that silence? That's my win .

As the meeting winds down, something Anna hinted at earlier gnaws at me, Mr. Ramon hasn't looked me in the eye once since I walked in wearing a skirt.

I don’t like that.

Not one damn bit.

It leaves me with more uncomfortable questions than answers, and as I gather my notes, already making a mental promise to circle back to that, I sense someone approaching.

Dean Jameson.

He’s younger than the rest of the board, early thirties at most, and carries himself like he’s painfully aware of his own appeal—sharp jaw, dark hair always styled a little too perfectly, and that quiet confidence of someone who’s calculated every move.

But today, his expression is serious, his posture strictly business.

"You handled that beautifully," he says, leaning in slightly.

I glance up, thrown off guard. "What?"

"With Jackson." He tilts his head toward the empty seat where Jackson had stewed in his own bruised ego. "He can be... difficult."

Difficult. That’s one word for it.

Dean searches for the right words, his brows drawing together thoughtfully.

"Jackson has a temper, and he loves to pretend he runs this place. The last CEO would’ve bulldozed right over him.

Told him to sit down and shut up. But you.

.." His gaze skims me slowly, contemplatively.

"You let him speak. Let him think he still had the upper hand. "

His lips twitch in a subtle approval. "Smart move."

I narrow my eyes, cautious. "Oh?"

"I’ve been waiting for someone like you," he says quietly. "Someone who doesn’t just accept things as they’ve always been. You see the cracks, the weaknesses. You see what this company could become under the right leader."

Something in his voice sends a flicker of wariness through me. It feels calculated, like he’s been watching for precisely this moment. Trust isn’t something I give freely, not in this place, not with these people, but he’s offering something useful, and I'd be stupid not to listen.

He steps closer, lowering his voice. "I know this company, Ms. Stavros. Inside and out. The politics, the alliances, the people who’ll stab you in the back before you even sense it coming. I can help you. I can be your eyes and ears—you just have to trust me."

The offer hangs heavy between us, rich with possibilities.

Then, he smirks, a hint of amusement breaking through. "And we can discuss it right here… or over dinner."

I arch a brow, skepticism coloring my voice. "Dinner? That’s bold."

He shrugs easily. "If we're seen together outside of work, they'll assume it's personal. They won't question the real reason we're talking."

"So you’re suggesting we give them gossip to distract from our real intentions?"

He nods slightly. "Being CEO means embracing risk." His tone stays even, carefully unreadable. "I can lay all my cards out here, in front of prying eyes, or we can have a professional meal. Call it a working dinner, if it makes you feel better."

I tilt my head, considering him carefully. "And what exactly do you get out of this?"

The smirk widens, slow and knowing. "Don’t fire me."

I blink, taken aback by his bluntness. "I'm not—I wasn't planning—" My brow furrows slightly. Is that seriously what everyone thinks I’m here to do ?

"You need someone on the inside," he continues smoothly, pressing the advantage.

"Someone who knows how the board really works, who's been here long enough to know exactly where the bodies are buried, figuratively speaking, of course.

" The barest hint of humor softens his words.

"Today, I made the right choice backing you. Let me prove it again."

I exhale slowly, weighing his words.