THE BILLIONAIRE’S PROPOSITION

Chapter 3:Th Bilionaire’s Game

I smirked at the information Carter had just shared with me. Andrew Hermes’s daughter asked to meet. The audacity was nearly refreshing. Most of the people who owed me money also sent lawyers or accountants rather than family members with “alternative repayment proposals.”

Curiosity piqued my interest. What was she planning on offering that would somehow prompt me to accept her terms instead? One thing that New York’s business elite had known without a doubt: Marcus Ellison did not renegotiate. Ever. Andrew Hermes had burned up $150,000 of my investment capital with his failing bakery venture, and I was going to collect — by hook or by crook.

“I can take care of this for you, sir,” Carter ventured, tugging at his designer tie. “You don’t have to waste your time.”

I reared my Italian leather chair and tapped my Mont Blanc pen on the polished mahogany desk. "No, I'm intrigued. The typical debt collection meetings are boring. Hmm, this could be pretty fun.' I looked at my Patek Philippe watch. “She’s booked for ten, right?”

"Yes, sir. It's nearly nine-thirty now. She seemed desperate to speak to you in person.”

A tiny, wicked smile creased my lips. “It’s just when she has my full attention, you know?”

"Very well, sir. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.” Carter nodded and retreated from my office.

I had hardly started my review of acquisition projections when the intercom buzzed. I sighed, already knowing who it’d be.

"Yes, Vivian?"

“Bit early for corporate takeovers, darling, I say?” My grandmother’s voice bore the crisp British accent she had never lost after decades in America.

I pressed my fingers against my brow. “Grandma, I have meetings all morning.” Did you need anything in particular?”

"Such formality! I’m just double-checking to see if you remembered our brunch with the Huntingtons tomorrow.”

Of course — another thinly veiled attempt at matchmaking. At thirty-eight, I was still stubbornly single, much to my grandmother’s perpetual displeasure. Since my parents were killed in a plane crash 15 years ago, Vivian Ellison had seen herself as the protector of the family legacy — which, meant securing an appropriate marriage and heirs.

“I have it on my calendar,” I said, all the while knowing I’d made plans for an “emergency” to come up tomorrow morning.

"Excellent. Charlotte Huntington has just finished her doctorate at Columbia. A brilliant girl, from a good family.”

“I’m sure she’s lovely,” I said, trying not to sound accusatory. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

“Marcus,” her voice cut edged. “When are you going to take this seriously? The Ellison fortune requires heirs. You can’t spend your life in there with a bunch of yes-men who only love your money.”

I exhaled slowly. “(My personal life) is not up for discussion.

“It would be if you had one,” she replied. “You work and you make examples out of people who disappoint you. That's not living, Marcus."

“I’m creating something meaningful,” I retorted. “Not like the debutantes you parade before me who’ve never worked a day in their lives.”

“Oh, my Lord,” Grandmother hoisted. “If you’d only meet someone who has substance — someone to challenge you rather than fear you — maybe you’d see what you lack.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said dryly. “Now I do have a meeting.”

"Fine, darling. But I’m not getting any younger, and neither are you. Breakfast is ready in the dining room.”

Vivian clicked off the intercom before I could answer, as per usual. Always needing the last word.

I looked at my watch again — 9:55. My rendezvous with the mysterious daughter of Hermes was almost upon me. Ten o’clock came, and Carter knocked.

“It is Ms. Hermes’ arrival, sir.”

"Send her in."

She stepped confidently into the room, though her eyes were anxious. My initial impression: She wasn’t at all what I’d imagined. Not the spoiled, entitled type I had imagined. She walked with quiet dignity, her simple but elegant clothes suggesting a practical but fashion-wise person. Her eyes flitted around my office, from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, the minimalist décor, the various awards modestly displayed.

“Good morning, Mr. Ellison,” she said, her voice musical but in control.

"Welcome, Ms...."

"Kamara. Kamara Hermes."

I waved at the chair across from my desk. "Please, sit. I know you wanted to talk about your father’s... financial situation."

She sat up straight, her hands clasped tightly around a leather portfolio. The vast majority of humans who walked into this office twisted, sweat, or overplayed their machismo. She did none of these things — but I noticed her fingers tremble slightly as she withdrew documents from her portfolio.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Ellison. I know that you're busy, so I will be direct.” She laid a document in front of me. “I’ve engaged a lawyer to write up a repayment plan.” The terms would make it preferable for you than foreclosing on our family home.”

I arched an eyebrow, intrigued against my better judgment. "Continue."

“The house isn’t worth much on the market today — it’s an older neighborhood that hasn’t gentrified. The resale value would be little compared to what my father owes.” She paused and held my gaze. “The payment plan I am proposing only with interest in it… only makes you more money,”

I leaned back, studying her. “And what reason do I have to wait years for money I can get back next week?”

“Because I  am willing to guarantee the debt,” she said, without missing a beat. “I have been accepted into a couple of really great fashion schools and I’ve been accepted into your foundation’s internship program as well. Once I establish, I will have the ability to make considerable payments.”

A humorless laugh escaped me. “So you want me to wait for you to build a career that may never happen? Ms. Hermes, are you aware of my reputation in business?”

"I am." Her voice remained steady. “But losing our home doesn’t serve either of us best.” We’ll be paying $2,000 a month and we will rent the upper floor and send you all of the proceeds directly. “With compound interest, you would have gotten over $200,000.”

“You want me to restructure a defaulted loan predicated on your future in fashion? I got up and walked slowly around my desk. “Do you have any idea how many wannabe designers each year get stomped in this town?”

It shook her composure a little bit. "Please, Mr. Ellison. My father is in the hospital because of stress. We don’t have anywhere else to go — family, a safety net. My siblings have their futures at stake.”

“I don’t care about your own family’s planning failures,” I replied coolly, now standing right next to her. “Business is business, Ms. Hermes. There is no room for sentiment in it.”

“Please,” she whispered, her eyes boring into mine, swollen tightly at the corners where they threatened to become wet with tears. "I'll do whatever it takes. Just don't take our home."

Something stirred inside me — a feeling I shushed. For a moment, I recognized myself at twenty-three, trying so hard to save my parents’ company after they died, with boards roaming the corpses of companies, hungry vultures, ready to pick apart everything they left on the table.

I backed off, hardening my features. "You've wasted both our time. The deadline stands—one week. Foreclosure proceedings will begin immediately if full payment is not received.”

"Mr. Ellison—"

"We're done here." I pressed the intercom. “Carter, please take Ms. Hermes out.”

She collected her papers with shaking hands, her back stiff with injured pride. She got to the door, walked back, and looked into my eyes with an intensity that startled me.

“This is not over,” she said softly. "There's always another way."

Once she left, I had been standing by the window, watching her as she passed the front of the building below. Something about her stuck — her resolve, her willingness to sacrifice for family, her refusal to let fear intimidate her.

The thought crossed my mind and I pushed it away. Business was business. Exceptions made for weakness, and weakness, in my world, was death.

What I didn’t know was that Kamara Hermes, taking her place among the Bond girls and femme fatales of my youth, had introduced in me a dangerous curiosity about the woman who would challenge Marcus Ellison in his way.