Bound to the Billionaire Boss

Chapter 5

Weston Shaw had exactly one way of expressing an apology: throw money at it, shower gifts, dump resources on the problem.

One cup of bitter coffee later, Ivy found herself with an extra six months' salary tacked straight onto her paycheck. Her desk got upgraded from the standard-issue trainee Dell to a full set of the latest Apple gear, with word that she could keep it all once she'd stuck around a full year. New-hire training skipped the usual rotation entirely — she was placed directly as the most entry-level administrative assistant.

When HR broke the news to her, Ivy's reaction was, frankly, a little conflicted. No way. Was this old man Weston Shaw actually developing a thing for her? What exactly was he playing at?

Ivy knew her own luck well enough. Nothing had ever fallen into her lap in this life, and she'd never once encountered kindness with no strings attached. So — was Weston planning to keep her, cushioned and comfortable? Work her like an ox during the day, and put her to a different kind of "use" at night? Impressive, really, that he'd managed to scheme up something this transparent.

The whole calculation left Ivy more than a little contemptuous. The president of a major conglomerate, and he'd set his sights on an employee under him? She mulled it over for a while, then pulled out her phone, intending to send a message and test the waters. She snapped a photo of her freshly upgraded desk and drafted a little thank-you note to her boss — but before she could hit send, a message from Weston beat her to it: Come here.

The timing was almost suspiciously perfect. Ivy paused, then typed back: Okay.

When the power gap between two people is wide enough, the wise move is to leave certain things unsaid, certain windows un-poked-through. She braced herself, prepared to dance with a wolf — and walked in to find a scene nothing like what she'd expected.

...

In New York, there were only so many reliable paths to real money: finance, energy, shipping, real estate. Vantage had gotten its start in real estate — or rather, its predecessor, Shaw Holdings, had. Ever since Weston Shaw took over and rebranded the company as Vantage, the real estate division — once considered the group's core business — had been quietly pushed further and further to the margins.

Land prices were set by people, and people's prices were set by circumstance. Every asset went through cycles, long or short, of rise and fall — nothing in this world simply sat there and guaranteed profit; anything that claimed to was a scam. Weston was no fool.

Once word got out that he'd been contemplating selling off land holdings, the entire Shaw family had nearly combusted. The trust administrators had taken him to court over an alleged breach of fiduciary duty, even joining forces with activist investors in an attempt to stage a board coup and strip him of his CEO title.

At the height of the conflict, one of Weston's uncles — then chairman of the trust committee — had died of sudden cardiac arrest at his private estate in the Hamptons, the night before he was set to file a whistleblower report with the SEC.

After that, no one in the family dared make noise anymore. Privately, everyone wondered whether this particular "wolf cub" had quietly taken matters into his own hands. The conflict had flared and then gone still on the surface, though the undercurrents ran just as violently as ever beneath it.

That standoff had lasted five years, more or less. Aside from the first few months, when he'd personally combed through every property Shaw Holdings owned, once the processes were streamlined and a newly hired management team took over, he hadn't touched it again — which parcels to auction off, where to break ground on new buildings, whose properties to acquire, how to market a new office tower — none of it crossed his desk. He only required that major matters be reported to him; profits and losses were the managers' own responsibility, and everything else he left entirely to their judgment.

His time was limited, and he had no intention of burning it on a division that was, by design, going to keep bleeding money. Vantage — the company he'd built with his own two hands — was the real foundation of everything he'd become.

The annual audit went ahead as usual. Beyond that, he'd occasionally flip through the real estate division's recent performance reports, just out of habit. Who could have guessed that one such casual flip-through would turn up a problem this massive.

...

Ivy walked into the conference room with her laptop tucked under her arm, and the atmosphere was nothing like what she'd pictured.

She'd expected the classic scene: the handsome president lounging in his chair, waiting patiently while a room full of brilliant managers took turns presenting their achievements.

Reality was something far more suffocating. A dozen-odd people stood packed in a row, not one of them speaking, not one of them lifting their eyes. Weston Shaw sat alone at the head of the table, flipping through a stack of documents, page by page. The dry rustle of pages turning cut through the dead silence with startling clarity.

Ivy didn't dare say a word. She eased the door shut behind her without a sound and shrank into a corner, tucking herself into the least noticeable spot she could find.

Finally, he turned the last page, let out a scornful huff, and flung the report across the table straight at Grant Walsh, the manager seated across from him.

"Take a good look at this." His voice was quiet, but somehow that made it land harder than shouting ever could. "Can anyone here explain to me why this office building lost a third of its tenants in two months? Why turnover among mid-level management is sitting at forty percent? What, are you all under the impression one person can do the job of three? So everyone just up and left, and it didn't occur to a single soul in this room to report it to me?"

"Uh... well, that batch of mid-level managers — Lindqvist poached them, offered them double the pay," Grant stammered out. "And the tenant loss was because Lindqvist started a price war with us too."

"So it's all Lindqvist's fault, is that it?" Weston let out a cold laugh. "A mass exodus of management, and not one whisper of warning reached anyone in this room? If I remember correctly, our office leases run a minimum of two years. So explain to me — what kind of reason would drive a company that needs a stable office to just walk away, forfeited deposit and all, rather than stay?"

Grant floundered, unable to form a coherent answer, while everyone else in the room played dumb, one by one. It was quiet enough now that you could hear people breathing.

Furious, Weston's gaze swept the room and landed in the corner, on Ivy, hunched over, typing something on her laptop, trying to make herself invisible.

"Ivy." His voice cut through suddenly.

Her heart lurched. She looked up and met his eyes, still simmering with anger.

"I don't pay you a monthly salary to sit in the corner as decoration."

Same venomous tongue as always.

Decoration? she thought. You're the biggest piece of decoration in this entire room.

"Come find a seat and sit down properly."

His temper really was appalling — Ivy rolled her eyes internally — but she dragged over a chair anyway and settled into an open spot. She didn't notice that the row of standing executives, seemingly frozen in place, had their eyes practically glued to her the entire time.

Two hours later, the meeting ended. Of the twelve people in that room, five were removed on the spot, and six were demoted. Even the one manager who'd escaped the fallout entirely wasn't out of the woods — if he couldn't turn the real estate division's decline around within a month, he'd be packing up his desk too.

Unexpectedly, after reviewing her meeting notes, Weston arranged for Ivy to spend three days a week over the following month embedded in the real estate division, learning the ropes.

Was he... grooming her for something bigger?

...

Ivy clocked out right on time and headed for the subway, bag in hand. New York's rainy season made weather forecasts about as reliable as a coin flip — blazing sun one minute after work, a torrential downpour the next. Just as she was debating whether to make a dash for it or wait out the storm where she stood, a car slowed to a crawl beside her, its window rolling down.

The one manager in the real estate division who'd survived the purge — Grant Walsh — leaned out from the passenger seat. "Ms. Hale, it's pouring out there. I'm headed your way, let me give you a ride."

She smiled. "Thanks, Mr. Walsh, but there's no need to trouble yourself."

"No trouble at all, I'm going that way anyway. God only knows how long this rain's going to last."

"Really, it's fine, I was actually planning to grab dinner nearby and then—"

"Get in."

The rear window rolled down, and a voice — cold, cutting, unmistakably sharp — interrupted the polite back-and-forth. Ivy's smile froze on her face. Through the window, she caught sight of a face she knew all too well: Weston's.

Damn it. Was there anywhere in this city she could go without running into him?