ROWAN CARTER
I was halfway through a conversation I didn’t need to be having.
Victor Hale was droning on about market volatility and long-term positioning, his voice smooth, rehearsed, forgettable. I nodded at the right places, champagne glass balanced loosely between my fingers, bubbles breaking lazily against the crystal.
I’d already decided I wasn’t investing. They hardly make any sales and victor wants to open a shop in my mall. What's the use of giving them my space and not gaining anything in return. I don't make any deal if I am not the one on the winning side. Victor was about to bore me again with his golf club sh*t that was when my mother appeared at my side.
She didn’t interrupt Victor. She never did. She simply placed a hand on my arm light, proprietary and waited. Victor n
