Chapter 54: Charlotte Thompson

Charlotte Thompson sat at the head of the massive mahogany conference table, her perfectly manicured hands trembling so badly she had to press them flat against the wood to hide it. At twenty-four, she was absolutely stunning—the kind of effortless beauty that came from exceptional genetics and unlimited access to the world’s best cosmetic treatments.

But right now, she felt like she was going to throw up all over her fifteen-thousand-dollar Armani suit.

’Oh god oh god what if they ask me something I can’t answer again? Fuck, I should have studied those reports. Why didn’t I study the fucking reports?’

Her blonde hair was styled in perfect waves that had taken three hours this morning because she’d been too nervous to sit still, her makeup was flawlessly applied to hide the dark circles from not sleeping for three days straight, and her designer business suit fit her like it was painted on.

But underneath all that expensive perfection, her heart was hammering so hard she was sure everyone could hear it.

Too bad beautiful doesn’t translate to competent.

"Miss Thompson," the CFO said, and Charlotte’s stomach dropped like she was on a roller coaster. Oh shit, here we go. "Could you please explain the quarterly projections for our cloud infrastructure division?"

Charlotte’s blue eyes—contacts that cost five hundred bucks because even her eye color was fake—darted around the room like a trapped animal. Twelve pairs of eyes stared back at her, most belonging to men who’d been running companies since before she was born, and every single one of them looked like they were waiting for her to fail.

’Fuck fuck fuck. Cloud infrastructure. I know this. I should know this. Think, Charlotte, think!’

"Well," she began, her voice coming out higher than usual, that breathy, privileged tone that screamed ’daddy’s money’ even when she was trying to sound professional. "The cloud... um... infrastructure... is really, really important for our... you know... digital... stuff."

The moment the words left her mouth; she wanted to crawl under the table and die. Did she just say "stuff" in a board meeting? Jesus fucking Christ, she sounded like a kindergartener trying to explain rocket science.

A few board members exchanged glances that could have cut glass. Someone at the far end of the table actually snorted, and Charlotte felt her face start burning with embarrassment so intense it was like being set on fire.

’I’m such a fucking fraud and everyone in this room knows it.’

"Could you be more specific?" the chief head of technology pressed, inside he was snickering, his voice dripping with the kind of condescension usually reserved for particularly slow children, and Charlotte felt something die inside her chest.

The heat was spreading from her face down her neck now, and she could feel sweat starting to form under her arms despite the air conditioning. "Um, well, the cloud stuff—I mean, the cloud infrastructure—it helps our computers do... like... computer things... better? And faster? Which is, you know, good for... business and stuff?"

’Did I just say "stuff" again? Kill me. Someone please just kill me right now.’

The silence that followed was so thick she could practically feel it pressing down on her like a weight.

One board member actually put his head in his hands like he was in physical pain. Another was clearly trying not to laugh, his shoulders shaking with the effort. The CFO looked like he was calculating how quickly he could update his résumé and get the hell out of this sinking ship.

’They think I’m an idiot. They all think I’m a complete fucking idiot, and they’re right.’

"Perhaps," the head of R&D suggested with forced diplomacy that made Charlotte want to disappear into the floor, "we could table this discussion until you’ve had more time to review the technical reports."

Translation: Until you stop embarrassing yourself and everyone in this room.

Charlotte nodded so eagerly her neck hurt, grateful for any excuse to stop this nightmare before she started crying in front of everyone. "Yes! Yes, that’s... that’s a really great idea. I’ll definitely review all the... the technical... reports. Tonight. Right away."

’I’m rambling. Shut up, Charlotte. Just shut up.’

As the meeting mercifully ended and people started filing out, she caught the whispered conversations that followed her like daggers to the heart:

"Jesus Christ, we’re so fucked."

"Her father’s probably spinning in his grave right now."

"I give the company three months before we’re all unemployed."

"How the hell did someone this incompetent inherit eight billion dollars?"

"Because daddy loved his little princess more than he loved this company, and now everyone’s going to pay for it

.

*

Charlotte’s office was a monument to inherited wealth and purchased taste, but right now it felt more like a prison. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, expensive artwork covered the walls, and her desk—a custom piece that cost more than most people’s cars—was covered with documents she couldn’t comprehend for shit.

She made it exactly three steps inside before her legs gave out, and she collapsed into her leather chair like a marionette with cut strings.

And then the tears came.

Not pretty tears. Not the kind of graceful crying you saw in movies. This was ugly, messy sobbing that made her mascara run and her nose turn red and splotchy.

"This is so fucked. Everything is so completely, utterly, catastrophically fucked, and it’s all my fault."

All her life, she’d been daddy’s perfect little princess. William Bob Thompson had given her everything—unlimited credit cards, designer clothes, exotic vacations, and the kind of lifestyle that most people only saw in movies. The only thing he’d ever asked of her was to look pretty and make him proud at social events.

Nobody ever told her she’d have to actually run the fucking company.

"I should have paid attention. I should have learned something. Anything. Instead of shopping and partying and pretending none of this mattered."

She’d never had to work for anything. Never had to study or struggle or actually learn anything difficult. While other kids were stressing about grades and college applications, she was shopping in Paris and getting facials that cost more than college tuition, living in a bubble where daddy’s money solved everything.

"Who knew that buying degrees wouldn’t actually make you smart? Who knew you needed actual skills to run a business when it just falls on your lap?"

When her father died of his heart attack three weeks ago, she’d cried harder about inheriting the company than she had about losing him. And that made her feel like even more of a monster, because what kind of daughter cries more about responsibility than about her dead father?

"But he left me with this impossible mess, and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to fix anything."

She was terrified of everything now. Stock prices that moved like casino games and made her stomach churn every time she looked at them. Quarterly reports that might as well have been written in ancient Greek. Competitors who wanted to destroy everything her father had built, circling like sharks who smelled blood in the water.

Employees who whispered about her incompetence behind her back like she couldn’t hear every fucking word.

"And worst of all, I’m letting daddy down. Even though he’s dead, I’m still managing to disappoint him."

She’d watched him work eighteen-hour days building this empire. Seen him miss family dinners, cancel vacations, sacrifice everything for the company. She remembered being eight years old and finding him asleep at his desk at three in the morning, still wearing yesterday’s suit.

And now it was all in her hands—hands that had never held anything more complicated than a shopping bag from Neiman Marcus.

"He’d rather see the company buried than let the vultures have it."

Those were her mother’s words, repeated from one of daddy’s last conversations. He’d known there were people circling, waiting for any sign of weakness.

Corporate predators who’d spent years positioning themselves to take everything he’d built.