At least, that’s what I thought.
It's bewildering to me.
The years have been kind to Sophia. She’s just as beautiful as she used to be. No, more. The girl with the shining eyes has become a self-assured, controlled woman, and I’m a moth to her flame. Lord help me, but I want to get her on a bed and thrust into her. I want to hear her moans again. I want to watch that control unravel.
Maybe you’re looking for a second chance with her.
Damn it, I hate when Julian is right.
I don't even know what motivated me to suggest that deal. It was an impulse. She was at the point of walking away, and I would never see her again. I was desperate to prevent that.
Still, it’s a good cause. We give money to plenty of nonprofits, and the Highfield Community Health Center is a worthy recipient. I even own a home in Highfield. I bought this lake house a couple of years ago, much to the confusion of my family. “But it’s in the middle of nowhere,” Vicky said when I told her what I’d done. “New York, I understand. Boston is historic. Washington is a necessary evil. But this?”
My family won’t be surprised that I’ve given a million dollars to a community health organization. If they even find out about it. If I want to keep the questions to a minimum, I can just donate that money out of my personal funds, not the company’s.
I end up getting two hours of sleep, maybe three. Thanks to jet lag, I wake up at seven, make myself a cup of coffee, and walk out to the lake. It’s a beautiful day. The surface is flat, a sleek glass mirror that reflects the cloudless blue sky.
If I don’t look at my phone or pay attention to the seventy-four urgent emails in my inbox, I can pretend it’s everything the doctor ordered.
Ignoring my phone is easier said than done. I get through my first cup without looking at it. Then I give in to the impulse and regret it immediately.
I have six meetings on my schedule tomorrow.
Six.
I told my family I needed a break. I asked them to keep the meetings to a minimum. I’ve been in Highfield less than twenty-four hours, and already, the demands have started.
I call Luis first thing Monday morning. “My calendar is packed,” I complain in Spanish. “Six meetings today, Luis. What the hell?”
Luis sounds just as exasperated as I feel. “Señor Cardenas, I have told people you are unavailable. I have declined all non-essential meetings. I am trying. But your mother insisted that you sit in on the Pardini meeting, the Acra takeover prep, and the Minsk contract negotiations.”
My mother insisted.
I have to get a handle on this.
The Cardenas Group is a multinational conglomerate. We operate in seventy-three countries. Last year, we earned two-point-three billion dollars in revenue. But we started out as a family company, and it shows. Like many family businesses that have grown bigger than the founders expected, we don't have any structures and processes in place.
My father worked himself to death. My mother remarried, but she can’t seem to change her old patterns. She installed Tomas, her new husband, as the CEO because outsiders can’t be relied on. Only family can be trusted.
Tomas, who used to head up the Accounting department at Cardenas and was on the brink of retirement when my father died, is woefully unqualified for the CEO job. He’s miserable. Vicky, who’s juggling a demanding job and two young children, is at her wit's end. Cristiano is moving to New York, getting married to his partner, and trying to have a baby. He doesn’t have time for pointless meetings, either. A year ago, Magnus almost left him. Ever since then, my brother has pulled back from the firm. “I won’t let work wreck my life,” he said flatly. “I won’t let it come between Magnus and me again.”
We’ve all tried to change the situation, but my mother, the controlling shareholder, won’t hear of it. She insists we preserve the status quo. Any attempts to modernize or delegate are met with, “That isn't how your father would have done it.”
Nobody gets more stuff dumped on their plate than me. I am the oldest son. My mother doesn’t have as many expectations of Victoria. Partly because Vicky is a woman—internalized misogyny is a hell of a drug—and partly because my sister has a family. I've thought about getting married and knocking somebody up for the same measure of space, but it probably wouldn't work. In Maria Cardenas’ world, women take care of children, while men work at the family firm.
Any sort of change would involve a very hard conversation with my mother. I might have to threaten to quit. I might have to do more than threaten. But that would devastate her, and I can’t do that. Not yet. My father died only three years ago. She needs time.
So I'm trapped. We’re all trapped.
“Señor?”
Two weeks ago, I thought I had a heart attack. My doctor told me if I didn’t make the appropriate lifestyle changes, I would follow my father into an early grave.
I don't want that.
“Who’s attending the Pardini meeting on our end?”
“Anita Formoso.”