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Authors: Elisabeth Wagner
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I snapped the binder shut and paced my office. With one hand I massaged my neck, and with the other, I ran my fingers through my hair, muttering quietly, “He can’t be doing this. Is this the first time? Or have I signed off on this garbage before? I don’t look at everything in detail. Damn it.” I punched my right fist against the wall. Pain radiated up my arm. Shit. Too hard.
I grabbed the notebook and stomped out of the office. I slammed my door and stormed my father’s antechamber.
Brigitte, who was sitting behind her computer, let out a scream. “Oh my god, Mr. Winter, you scared me.” I apologized and, still in a fury, wrenched open my father’s office door, leaving Brigitte in my wake. “Mr. Winter. Mr. Winter!”
I didn’t bother turning around.
“Samuel, you can’t go in there now!”
I raised my hand, motioning for her to stop. She clammed up immediately. The only sound was the clicking of her heels on the old parquet as she retreated.
Grim-faced, I stood in the doorway. I was breathing heavily, shaking. I was livid, unbelievably livid. Why had he never said a word? I was angry with myself for having been so blind to what was really going on.
“Samuel, we’re in a meeting,” my father snapped.
I ignored his remark and entered the room. His executive board members watched me under lowered brows, but I didn’t care. I wanted everyone to know how my father was running his business.
He rose from his pretentious-looking black leather chair, straightened his tie, and buttoned his jacket. “Samuel!” he barked again in a deep voice.
I tossed the binder onto the table. His expression turned puzzled. I glared at him while he picked it up.
“What—?”
“No, not what, ” I hissed. “ How. How often? How many times have you done this?”
“Not here, Samuel. Let’s discuss this later,” he said, his voice calm. Judging from his demeanor, he felt no guilt; he had done this many times. Taken homes from people. How could I not have known?
“You feel good about yourself? How can you sleep at night?” I snapped.
My father grabbed my arm and ushered me to the door. Before we exited, he turned to his board members. “Gentlemen, please excuse us for a moment. I’ll have Brigitte serve you some refreshments, and if you like, go to lunch without me.”
The five men nodded.
Once out of their sight, my father practically dragged me through the antechamber, then opened the door and shoved me into the corridor.
“What was that all about? What were you thinking?” he growled.
I smiled bitterly and shook my head. “What was I thinking? What are you thinking? Had I known the games you’re playing, I would have never joined this company.”
“Ah, so that’s what this is about.” He stood there, motionless, not blinking an eye. How cold he was.
“You can live with this? You’re the reason for hundreds of people losing their homes, damn it. People who can’t afford to go anywhere else!”
My father crossed his arms and listened as I continued to yell. Once I’d sputtered to a halt, he said, “My son, that’s business. Our business. Old buildings get demolished; new ones get built. Those still living in the old buildings have to move. They’re mostly tenements, no longer profitable and already half-empty. Only old people remain, because who wants to live there? We give other people what they want. Shopping malls, bank branches—you name it. We breathe new life into dead neighborhoods all over the world. It’s called business .”
“Yeah, that’s what you call it. You could renovate those buildings, make them desirable again. New families could move in. That’s another way to breathe new life into a neighborhood. Without evicting anybody,” I spat.
“That’s not how things work, son.” he said.
I could only shake my head. I fisted my hands in my hair, unable to fathom his callous, cruel practices. That’s how he’d had made it to the top? That’s how he could
I snapped the binder shut and paced my office. With one hand I massaged my neck, and with the other, I ran my fingers through my hair, muttering quietly, “He can’t be doing this. Is this the first time? Or have I signed off on this garbage before? I don’t look at everything in detail. Damn it.” I punched my right fist against the wall. Pain radiated up my arm. Shit. Too hard.
I grabbed the notebook and stomped out of the office. I slammed my door and stormed my father’s antechamber.
Brigitte, who was sitting behind her computer, let out a scream. “Oh my god, Mr. Winter, you scared me.” I apologized and, still in a fury, wrenched open my father’s office door, leaving Brigitte in my wake. “Mr. Winter. Mr. Winter!”
I didn’t bother turning around.
“Samuel, you can’t go in there now!”
I raised my hand, motioning for her to stop. She clammed up immediately. The only sound was the clicking of her heels on the old parquet as she retreated.
Grim-faced, I stood in the doorway. I was breathing heavily, shaking. I was livid, unbelievably livid. Why had he never said a word? I was angry with myself for having been so blind to what was really going on.
“Samuel, we’re in a meeting,” my father snapped.
I ignored his remark and entered the room. His executive board members watched me under lowered brows, but I didn’t care. I wanted everyone to know how my father was running his business.
He rose from his pretentious-looking black leather chair, straightened his tie, and buttoned his jacket. “Samuel!” he barked again in a deep voice.
I tossed the binder onto the table. His expression turned puzzled. I glared at him while he picked it up.
“What—?”
“No, not what, ” I hissed. “ How. How often? How many times have you done this?”
“Not here, Samuel. Let’s discuss this later,” he said, his voice calm. Judging from his demeanor, he felt no guilt; he had done this many times. Taken homes from people. How could I not have known?
“You feel good about yourself? How can you sleep at night?” I snapped.
My father grabbed my arm and ushered me to the door. Before we exited, he turned to his board members. “Gentlemen, please excuse us for a moment. I’ll have Brigitte serve you some refreshments, and if you like, go to lunch without me.”
The five men nodded.
Once out of their sight, my father practically dragged me through the antechamber, then opened the door and shoved me into the corridor.
“What was that all about? What were you thinking?” he growled.
I smiled bitterly and shook my head. “What was I thinking? What are you thinking? Had I known the games you’re playing, I would have never joined this company.”
“Ah, so that’s what this is about.” He stood there, motionless, not blinking an eye. How cold he was.
“You can live with this? You’re the reason for hundreds of people losing their homes, damn it. People who can’t afford to go anywhere else!”
My father crossed his arms and listened as I continued to yell. Once I’d sputtered to a halt, he said, “My son, that’s business. Our business. Old buildings get demolished; new ones get built. Those still living in the old buildings have to move. They’re mostly tenements, no longer profitable and already half-empty. Only old people remain, because who wants to live there? We give other people what they want. Shopping malls, bank branches—you name it. We breathe new life into dead neighborhoods all over the world. It’s called business .”
“Yeah, that’s what you call it. You could renovate those buildings, make them desirable again. New families could move in. That’s another way to breathe new life into a neighborhood. Without evicting anybody,” I spat.
“That’s not how things work, son.” he said.
I could only shake my head. I fisted my hands in my hair, unable to fathom his callous, cruel practices. That’s how he’d had made it to the top? That’s how he could
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