All The Sides Of Mr. Grease

THREE | DAMIAN

My father had spent the last six months finding increasingly creative ways to remind me that I wasn't the CEO. Apparently, becoming Chief Operating Officer of a multibillion-dollar corporation at thirty-three wasn't impressive if the title didn't have the word chief executive attached to it.

I stepped out of the elevator and onto the executive floor of Grease Holdings. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Manhattan. Assistants moved efficiently between offices. Phones rang. Meetings were scheduled. Decisions were made.

Order. Structure. Control. The way things were supposed to be.

"Good morning, boss."

I glanced up to find Brosnan falling into step beside me. My assistant somehow managed to look perfectly presentable despite carrying three coffees, two folders, and a tablet. "You're late."

"I arrived six minutes early."

"You usually arrive twenty."

"That's because I enjoy making everyone else look bad."

I took one of the folders from him. "You should consider a hobby."

"I have hobbies."

"And does that include your gossiping about executives?"

"It's called networking."

I ignored him and continued toward my office. "What's first?"

"Investor presentations. Four scheduled meetings. Three acquisition reviews. One board call." He paused. "And your father called."

Of course he had. There were a few texts from him on my phone that I couldn’t bring myself to open.

"What did he want?"

Brosnan grimaced. "You."

"Be specific."

"He asked if you'd proposed to anyone recently."

I closed my eyes briefly. "Let me guess. He brought up the inheritance."

"He brought up the inheritance."

The inheritance wasn't really an inheritance. It was just a fancy form of centralized control.

My grandfather had structured ownership of the company in a way that would transfer majority authority to me only after certain conditions were met. One of those conditions was marriage. A ridiculous requirement. One I had ignored for years. Unfortunately, ignoring it wasn't making it disappear.

"Perhaps," Brosnan said carefully, "you could just date someone."

"I don't have time."

"You've had ten years."

"I've been working."

He laughed. "Exactly."

Marriage felt inconvenient. Relationships required unpredictability, compromise, and emotion. Three things I preferred to keep separate from business. Unfortunately, business was precisely why I needed one.

An hour later, I was heading toward the conference rooms when someone collided directly into my shoulder. Coffee splashed.

Not on me. On her.

The woman looked down at the stain spreading across the sleeve of her cream blazer before lifting her gaze to mine. I was met with blue eyes. Very annoyed blue eyes.

She was striking in a way that wasn't immediately obvious. Brown hair pulled neatly into a low ponytail, minimal makeup, delicate features sharpened by irritation. She looked polished but tired, as though she'd spent the last several nights sleeping far less than she should have.

"Seriously?"

I checked my watch. "You were looking at your phone."

"You walked into me."

"You walked into me."

Her expression hardened. I almost admired it. Most people became nervous after meeting me for the first time. She looked like she was considering homicide. "I'm fairly certain this building has enough space for both of us, Mr..."

"Grease."

Recognition flickered briefly and then disappeared just as quickly. That was interesting. No nervousness. No attempt to impress me. Nothing but irritation. "Well, Mr. Grease, congratulations on winning the collision."

I glanced at the coffee stain. "You'll survive."

Her eyebrows shot upward. "Oh, why thank you, I'll frame that on a motivational poster." She deadpanned. Before I could respond, she walked away.

I watched her disappear down the hallway. That was a notably unpleasant interaction. If I wasn’t already worked up about my father’s constant reminder of marriage, she would’ve pissed me off. But I forgot entirely about the interaction almost immediately after. Forty minutes later, much to her dismay I assume, she walked into Conference Room Three. I nearly sighed. Of course she was one of the founders here seeking investments.

The woman froze when she saw me sitting at the head of the table. "Mr. Grease."

"Miss..."

"Scott."

Miss Scott took a seat alone across from the investment committee. She had gotten rid of the coffee-stained blazer and was now in a black silk blouse. There was no business partner beside her. No support. Just a laptop, a stack of presentation materials, and a determined expression. Strange. Most founders brought someone with them. Miss Scott apparently preferred to fight her own battles.

The presentation began and for the first ten minutes, I found reasons to dislike her. She challenged questions. Defended every detail. Refused to oversell. Most importantly, she seemed completely uninterested in winning anyone over through charm.

"Our customer acquisition costs increased after expanding digital campaigns," she explained.

"And revenue hasn't matched that increase," Langley, a stout blonde man and the company’s Chief Financial Officer, replied.

"Not yet."

"That's not very reassuring."

"Yes," she said evenly. "But it's realistic."

A few members of the committee exchanged glances. Miss Scott didn't seem to care.

Vanessa, the Investment Relations Director, leaned forward. "What makes Cloudberry different from every other skincare brand entering the market?"

Miss Scott straightened slightly. For the first time, genuine passion entered her voice. "We don't build products around trends. We build products people actually continue using. Most brands survive on constant customer acquisition. We survive because customers come back."

Vanessa glanced down at the report, nodding. "Your retention numbers are impressive."

"They are." The confidence wasn't arrogance. It was certainty.

By the twenty-minute mark, I found reasons to respect her. The company was solid. The products were strong. The branding was excellent. Unfortunately, the numbers weren't.

When the presentation ended, the committee began discussing concerns. "The fundamentals are promising," Langley said.

"But?" Miss Scott asked.

"But cash flow is concerning."

"You mean we're growing faster than our current funding allows."

"I mean you're running out of money."

The room fell silent.

Miss Scott folded her arms. "Respectfully, if we weren't growing, we wouldn't need investors."

"And if growth isn't sustainable?" I countered.

Her jaw tightened. "Then I wouldn't have spent the last four years building a customer base that keeps returning."

The discussion continued for several more minutes. She argued every point. She wasn’t arguing emotionally but logically. And she was good at it. Very good at it and I had a feeling that she knew that. Unfortunately, being right didn't change the numbers. Eventually, I ended the discussion. "Thank you for your time, Miss Scott." The room quieted. She already knew.

"Grease Holdings won't be moving forward."

The disappointment flashed across her face before she buried it. "You think we're going to fail."

"I think expansion will be difficult."

A muscle ticked in her jaw. "That's a very diplomatic way of saying the same thing."

A few people shifted uncomfortably as I leaned forward. "The financial risk outweighs the projected return."

For a moment, neither of us looked away. Then she nodded once. "I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Grease."

The way she said honesty sounded suspiciously like an accusation. I watched her carefully as she gathered her things and left.

Ten minutes later, I was pacing outside the conference room looking through notes and trying to come up with a response that would satisfy my father for the time being when I heard her voice again.

Miss Scott stood near the windows overlooking the city, her back partially turned toward me. One arm was wrapped around her waist while she held her phone to her ear with the other.

She looked smaller somehow. Even more than that she looked tired. Defeated. "...I know, Emily."

She paused and then exhaled shakily. "No, I'm not crying."

Another pause. "Because if I start crying, I might never stop." Her shoulders slumped.

For the first time all afternoon, she looked nothing like the woman who had challenged our entire investment committee without blinking.

"I don't know what we're supposed to do now," she admitted quietly. "I've called everyone. I've pitched everyone. Nobody wants to touch us."

She gave a bitter laugh. "Apparently we're too risky." The sarcasm wasn't difficult to miss.

She turned slightly, staring out at the skyline. "I don't have a backup plan, Emily. That was the backup plan."

She was silent for a moment. Whatever her friend said made her close her eyes. "No, I can't just magically find another investor by next week."

Her voice cracked slightly. "We have payroll due. We have suppliers waiting on payments. If we don't get funding soon, that's it."

The words hung in the air. That's it.

No dramatics or exaggeration. Just resignation. I should have walked away but I stayed.

"Maybe Mr. Grease can buy a heart with all that money," she muttered.

I blinked, my interest piqued.

"Or maybe he's naturally this insufferable. Billionaire genetics."

A longer pause followed.

Then she groaned. "I know he was technically right. That's the worst part. I can't even call him an arrogant jackass without admitting he's an accurate arrogant jackass."

Despite myself, I almost smiled. Almost.

Her voice softened. "I just... I don't know what else to do."

There it was again. The helplessness surrounding her voice and demeanor. Raw and honest.

"I've put everything into this company, Em. Everything. If it fails..." She swallowed. "I don't even know who I am without it."

A few moments later, she ended the call and lowered the phone. When she turned around and spotted me standing there, horror flashed across her face. Then she looked slightly embarrassed and then altogether irritated. "Mr. Grease."

"Miss Scott."

From the color that crept into her cheeks, I could tell that she'd realized exactly how much I'd heard. "I was just leaving."

"I know."

She frowned and I studied her as she walked down the hall past me.

Most founders who sat across from investment committees learned quickly how to perform desperation. They exaggerated projections, made promises they couldn't keep, and treated every conversation like a sales pitch. Miss Scott hadn't done any of that. Even when she knew she was losing the room, she'd argued facts instead of fantasies. She'd challenged people who controlled her future and refused to flatter them for a favorable outcome.

And now, when she thought no one was listening, she wasn't angry about losing the investment. She was worried about her employees. Payroll. Suppliers. The company she'd spent years building. It occurred to me that she was exactly the sort of person my grandfather would have approved of. The thought was irritating. More irritating was the realization that she was probably the solution to a problem I'd been avoiding for years.

I needed a wife. Not a relationship. Not romance. Just a marriage that satisfied a legal requirement and allowed me to assume control of the company. Every woman my family had attempted to introduce me to came with expectations, ambitions, or an unhealthy fascination with the Grease name. Miss Scott had spent the better part of the afternoon making it abundantly clear that she didn't like me.

Oddly enough, that made her trustworthy. She wanted something specific: funding. I wanted something specific: to become CEO. Neither objective required affection. Neither objective required permanence.

“Wait,” I found myself saying. She was a few paces away from me when she turned back around.

For the first time since my grandfather's conditions had become a genuine obstacle, the solution seemed almost absurdly straightforward. Temporary. Contractual. Beneficial to both parties.

The idea was ridiculous. Which was probably why I couldn't find a flaw in it. "I have a proposal."

Her eyes narrowed. "We already did the proposal part."

"Not that proposal."

I paused, aware that what I was about to say would sound completely insane. Especially to a woman that looked like she wanted to launch me out the window.

Then again, it was completely insane.

"Miss Scott, will you marry me?"