Poison or Victory
title: "Chapter 2" wordCount: 3083
My first official act as Callum Hargrave's executive assistant was to schedule a meeting he didn't want and invite people he'd specifically told me to exclude.
I sent the calendar invites at 6:47 AM, before he'd arrive at the office, before he could stop me. Literary imprint editors, all twelve of them, plus the publicity team he'd already started cutting. Subject line: "Strategic Vision Session—Mandatory Attendance." I CC'd his personal email so he'd see it on his phone, know exactly what I'd done, and have to decide whether to cancel it publicly or let me have this small, pointless victory.
My desk sat outside his office—glass walls, no privacy, a fishbowl designed to remind me I was being watched. I'd arrived at six to beat him in, claimed the space before he could poison it with expectations. The chair was ergonomic, expensive, the kind of thing that cost more than my monthly rent. I adjusted it lower than comfortable. Needed the discomfort. Needed to stay sharp.
He walked in at seven-thirty, Tom Ford suit in charcoal, no tie, top button undone like he'd already been working for hours. Probably had. He didn't look at me, just moved past my desk toward his office, and I caught the scent of his cologne—something dark and woody that probably cost more per ounce than I made per hour.
"Good morning, Mr. Hargrave."
He stopped. Turned. Those pale eyes found mine, and I watched him process the meeting invite, the small rebellion, the test.
"Ms. Mercer." He said my name like he was tasting it, deciding if it was poison. "My office. Now."
I stood, smoothed my skirt—black, professional, armor. Followed him through the glass door he held open, hyperaware of the eyes tracking us from the bullpen. Everyone wanted to see how this would play out. The girl who used to own this place, now fetching coffee for the man who'd stolen it.
He closed the door. Didn't sit. Leaned against his desk instead, arms crossed, and I hated that the casual pose made him look more dangerous, not less.
"The meeting," he said.
"You said you wanted me to manage your calendar."
"I said I wanted you to learn the business."
"Can't learn it if I don't meet the people running it." I stayed near the door, kept my spine straight. "The literary imprint is Mercer Media's legacy. My grandfather—"
"Your grandfather is dead." Not cruel, just factual. "And his legacy is drowning in red ink."
"So you're just going to cut it? Erase eighty years of—"
"I'm going to stop the bleeding." He pushed off the desk, moved closer, and I forced myself not to step back. "That imprint loses two million annually. The editors you invited to this meeting? They acquire books that win awards and sell three thousand copies. They're very good at their jobs. Their jobs just don't make money."
"Not everything is about profit."
"No." He was close enough now that I had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. "Some things are about survival. Your mother understood that. Eventually."
The mention of Eleanor hit like a slap. I felt my nails dig into my palms, felt the gold ring press against my finger.
"Don't talk about her."
"Why not?" His voice dropped, got quieter, which somehow made it worse. "She made the smart choice. Sold before there was nothing left to sell. You should be grateful."
"Grateful." The word tasted like acid. "She sold my inheritance to a corporate raider and you think I should—"
"I think you should look at the numbers." He moved past me, pulled a file from his desk, held it out. "Really look. Not the sanitized versions your mother showed the board. The actual financials."
I didn't take the file. "I've seen them."
"You've seen what you wanted to see." He set the file on the edge of his desk, between us. "The literary imprint. The academic press. The poetry division your grandfather started because he fancied himself a patron of the arts. All of it hemorrhaging money while the one division that actually turns a profit gets shoved into a basement office and pretended out of existence."
"The romance imprint."
"The romance imprint." He said it without judgment, which was somehow worse than if he'd sneered. "Thirty-two percent of your revenue. Forty-seven percent of your profit. And your family treated those editors like they were running a vanity project."
I knew he was right. Had known it for years, if I was honest, but admitting it felt like betraying my grandfather's ghost.
"The meeting stands," I said.
"Fine." He moved back to his desk, sat, pulled his laptop closer. Dismissed me with the gesture. "But you're running it. And when those editors ask you why they're being fired, you're going to be the one who explains it."
My stomach dropped. "You're making me—"
"You scheduled it. You run it." He looked up, and there was something almost curious in his expression, like he was conducting an experiment and I was the variable. "Consider it part of your education."
The meeting room was too small for twelve editors plus publicity, but I'd booked it deliberately—wanted them uncomfortable, crowded, aware that space was shrinking. They filed in at nine, clutching coffee cups and tablets, shooting me looks that ranged from confused to hostile. I'd been the heir apparent once. Now I was the assistant to their executioner.
Patricia Okonkwo arrived last, took the seat closest to the door. She ran the romance imprint, had been with Mercer for fifteen years, and I'd spoken to her maybe twice in all that time. Both times at company parties where I'd been too busy networking with the literary editors to notice the woman who was actually keeping us solvent.
"Thank you all for coming," I started, and my voice came out steadier than I felt. "I know this is unexpected—"
"Is it true?" Marcus Chen, senior editor for literary fiction, didn't wait for me to finish. "Are we being shut down?"
"No one said—"
"We're not idiots, Sloane." He used my first name like a weapon. "Hargrave Industries doesn't acquire companies to preserve their legacy. They strip assets and sell the parts."
I looked at Patricia. She was watching me with an expression I couldn't read, fingers drummed against her coffee cup—paper, not ceramic, like she'd grabbed it from the cart outside because she knew this wouldn't take long.
"Mr. Hargrave wants to restructure," I said carefully. "Focus on profitable divisions—"
"So we're being shut down." Marcus again. "Jesus. Your grandfather is probably spinning in his grave."
"My grandfather ran this company into the ground." The words came out before I could stop them, sharp and true and unforgivable. The room went silent. "He prioritized prestige over profit, published books that won awards and lost money, and convinced himself that was noble. It wasn't. It was ego."
Patricia's drumming stopped.
"The literary imprint loses two million dollars a year," I continued, and I was quoting Callum now, using his words because I didn't have better ones. "The academic press loses another million. The poetry division exists because my grandfather liked the idea of being a patron. None of that is sustainable."
"So what?" Marcus stood up. "We just abandon literary fiction? Publish nothing but—" He glanced at Patricia, caught himself, but the damage was done. "Nothing but commercial trash?"
"Sit down, Marcus." Patricia's voice was quiet, but he sat. She looked at me. "What's the plan?"
"I don't know yet."
"But there is one? A plan that doesn't involve liquidating the whole company?"
I thought about the clause I'd found last night, the equity I'd lost without knowing it, the seventy-two hours ticking down.
"I'm working on it."
"Work faster." She stood, and the rest of the room took it as permission to leave. They filed out in silence, and I was left alone with the too-small room and the knowledge that I'd just burned every bridge I had left.
My phone buzzed. Text from Callum: "My office. Bring the romance financials."
Patricia's office was in the basement, tucked between the mailroom and the building's mechanical systems. I'd never been down here before—had never had a reason to visit the division my family pretended didn't exist. The door was propped open with a doorstop shaped like a stack of books, and inside, the walls were covered in cover flats, bright and glossy and unapologetically commercial.
She looked up when I knocked, didn't seem surprised to see me.
"The financials are on the shared drive," she said. "Folder labeled 'Romance_Q3.' Password is 'Austen1817.'"
"I need to understand something first." I stayed in the doorway, felt the hum of the mechanical systems through the floor. "Why do you stay? You could work anywhere. Bigger publishers, better offices, actual windows."
"Your grandfather never came down here." She leaned back in her chair, and I noticed the framed photo on her desk—two kids, maybe eight and ten, gap-toothed smiles. "Too embarrassed that romance paid for his literary prizes. Your mother came down once, right after she took over. Looked around like she'd stepped in something, asked if we'd considered 'elevating the brand.' I told her our brand was profit."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing. She left. Didn't come back." Patricia pulled up something on her screen, turned the monitor so I could see. "This is our five-year projection. Conservative estimates, assuming we maintain current market share and don't expand into audio or international. We could carry the entire company. Not just stay afloat—actually grow."
The numbers were staggering. Revenue curves trending up, profit margins that made the literary imprint look like a charity project.
"Why didn't you show this to the board?"
"I did. Three years ago. Your grandfather said romance was 'beneath the Mercer name.' Your mother said she'd 'take it under advisement.'" Patricia closed the laptop. "They didn't want to hear it. Easier to pretend we didn't exist than admit we were the only thing keeping the lights on."
My phone buzzed again. Callum, calling this time. I declined it.
"He's going to cut everything but your division," I said. "Gut the literary imprint, kill the academic press, turn Mercer Media into a romance publisher with a legacy name."
"I know."
"And you're okay with that?"
"I'm okay with keeping my job." She stood, moved to the door, and I had to step back to let her pass. "Your family spent eighty years building a reputation on the backs of writers who couldn't pay rent. Callum Hargrave is a bastard, but at least he's honest about what he wants. Can you say the same?"
She left me standing in the hallway, surrounded by the hum of machinery and the weight of questions I didn't want to answer.
Callum's office was dark when I got back upstairs, just the glow of his laptop screen and the city lights through the windows. He was on a call, voice low, and he gestured for me to sit without looking up.
I sat. Waited. Watched him work and hated that he made it look effortless—the way he listened more than he spoke, asked questions that sounded casual but weren't, controlled the conversation without ever raising his voice.
He ended the call. Looked at me.
"Did you get the financials?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"Patricia's right. Romance could carry the company." I pulled up the files on my phone, but he waved them away.
"I know. I've seen them."
"Then why did you send me down there?"
"Because you needed to see them." He stood, moved to the windows, and I watched his reflection in the glass—sharp lines, careful posture, everything controlled. "Your family built Mercer Media on the idea that some books matter more than others. That literary fiction is art and romance is commerce. That prestige is worth more than profit."
"And you think that's wrong."
"I think it's expensive." He turned, leaned against the window frame. "Your grandfather published books that won National Book Awards and sold three thousand copies. He paid advances he couldn't afford to writers who couldn't earn them back. He threw parties for critics and ignored the readers who actually bought books. And he convinced himself that was noble."
"It was about more than money."
"Was it?" He moved closer, and I felt the air shift between us, get heavier. "Or was it about ego? About being able to say he published Important Literature, even if it meant his employees took pay cuts and his company bled money?"
I thought about Patricia's office in the basement, about the editors upstairs who'd looked at me like I was a traitor, about my grandfather's office—the one Callum sat in now—with its first editions and its awards and its complete absence of anything that had actually made money.
"You're going to cut them all," I said. "Everyone but romance."
"I'm going to stop the bleeding." He was close enough now that I could see the faint scar above his left eyebrow, barely visible, the kind of thing you'd only notice if you were looking. "And you're going to help me."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because you don't have a choice." Not cruel, just true. "You signed the contract. You gave up your equity. And in seventy hours, if you haven't found a better solution, I'm liquidating everything your family built."
The words should have made me angry. Instead, I felt something else—something that sat in my chest like a stone and made it hard to breathe.
"There has to be another way."
"Then find it." He reached past me, pulled a file from his desk, held it out. "This is the full audit. Every division, every imprint, every line item. You have until Friday at five. Show me a plan that saves Mercer Media without destroying it, and I'll listen."
I took the file. Our fingers brushed, just for a second, and I felt the contact like electricity.
"And if I can't?"
"Then you'll learn a valuable lesson about the difference between legacy and survival." He moved back to his desk, sat, pulled his laptop closer. Dismissed me. "Close the door on your way out."
I left. Closed the door. Stood at my desk with the file in my hands and the weight of seventy hours pressing down on my shoulders.
My phone buzzed. Email from an address I didn't recognize. Subject line: "You're going to want to see this."
I opened it.
Single attachment, no message.
The file was labeled "Hargrave_Mercer_Acquisition_Internal_Memo.pdf."
I downloaded it. Started reading. Got two pages in before I saw the line that made everything else make sense.
"Acquisition target selected based on personal connection to CEO. Recommend proceeding with caution given conflict of interest."
Personal connection.
I scrolled down, found the next section, and my hands started shaking.
"Callum Hargrave and Eleanor Mercer: documented relationship spanning eighteen months prior to acquisition. Recommend disclosure to board."
The file slipped from my fingers. Hit the desk with a sound like a gunshot.
Callum's door opened.
"Sloane?"
I looked up at him, at the man who'd bought my mother's company, who'd given me seventy-two hours to save it, who'd manipulated me into surrendering my equity.
The man who'd apparently been sleeping with my mother.
"When were you going to tell me?" My voice came out steady, cold, nothing like the chaos in my chest. "About you and Eleanor?"
His expression didn't change. Didn't even flicker.
"Who sent you that file?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes." He moved toward me, and I stood, put the desk between us. "Sloane—"
"Don't." I held up my hand, saw it shaking, forced it still. "Just tell me if it's true. Were you involved with my mother?"
The pause before he answered told me everything.
"It's complicated."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have right now." He reached for the file on my desk, but I grabbed it first, held it against my chest like evidence. "That memo is two years old. Taken out of context. Whoever sent it to you wants you to—"
"To what? Question your motives? Wonder if you bought Mercer Media because you wanted the company or because you wanted revenge on the woman who—" I stopped. Couldn't finish the sentence. "What happened between you two?"
"That's between me and Eleanor."
"She's my mother."
"And she's the one who sold me the company." His voice got quieter, more dangerous. "If you want answers, ask her."
"I'm asking you."
"And I'm telling you it's none of your business." He moved around the desk, and I backed up, hit the window. "What Eleanor and I had—what we did or didn't do—has nothing to do with you."
"You bought my family's company."
"I bought a failing business from a woman who was smart enough to get out before it collapsed." He was close now, too close, and I could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the only sign that he wasn't as controlled as he pretended. "Whatever else happened between us is irrelevant."
"Is it?" I shoved the file against his chest, made him take it. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you seduced my mother, convinced her to sell, and then hired me so you could—what? Finish what you started? Get revenge? Prove some kind of point?"
"You think very highly of yourself." He set the file on the desk without looking at it, kept his eyes on mine. "If I wanted revenge on Eleanor, I'd have liquidated the company the day I bought it. If I wanted to prove a point, I wouldn't have given you seventy-two hours to find an alternative. And if I'd hired you to finish anything, you'd know it."
"Then why?" My voice cracked, just slightly, and I hated myself for it. "Why give me the job? Why the deadline? Why any of this?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. And for the first time since I'd met him, Callum Hargrave looked like he didn't have an answer.
The door to the outer office opened.
We both turned.
Victoria Hargrave stood in the doorway, perfectly tailored suit in ice blue, smile sharp enough to cut.
"Darling," she said, looking at Callum. "We need to talk about the Mercer situation. It seems someone's been leaking confidential files."
She held up her phone, and I saw my own email address on the screen.
"And I think we both know who."