XAVIER CARRINGTON
The boardroom smells like polished mahogany and expensive cologne, the kind of scent that clings to men who've spent decades convincing themselves they matter. I sit at the head of the table, my fingers steepled in front of me, and I watch the assembled executives shift in their seats like restless children waiting for recess. The topic, as it has been for the past three meetings, is the future of Carrington Media. But the subtext, as always, is Barbara Sterling.
My mother's voice echoes in my head, the conversation we had just this morning still fresh and raw. "Xavier, you need to think about the future. The board is restless. Your father's will requires you to marry within twelve months, and Barbara Sterling is a perfect match." I told her I'm already married. I told
