Read Online To Charm A Billionaire (Men of Monaco Book 1) by Michelle Monkou - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michelle Monkou
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miserable.
"You are so worried about my health. If I sit in this seat any longer, I'm bound to pop a blood vessel. You started this company, but we've helped build it. We all have done our part and earned our part. Now that Dane suddenly wants to idolize the money gods with cutthroat tactics, we have to dance to his tune. Fire me, retire me, whatever you want to call it. I've had enough." He pushed back his chair so hard it slid back and hit the wall.
"Damien, sit down." His father's voice was low.
"No. We're done here. You've made it clear that this isn't a family business. It's just business."
"Damien—"
He raised his hand to stop Dallon's apology or roundabout Kumbaya philosophy on the situation.
His father's voice thundered after him as he headed for the door.
Unlike his march into the building, now he walked out with an unsettled feeling that a chapter was closing in his life. Familiar pressure stacked like a formidable wall in his chest. He smoothed his shirt mentally pushing down, pushing back the gut-wrenching sensation of a dark free fall.
"This will pass." Jacques stepped out of the shadows of the hallway.
Damien focused on placing one foot in front of the other to add distance from his family.
"Your father is under a lot of stress." Jacques's footsteps followed closely.
Damien stabbed the elevator button and prayed that the doors would slide open quickly. His pulse thudded in his head like a fist pounding at his skull. He stabbed at the button again.
"Listen, son." Jacques's hand gripped his shoulder as the door opened.
"No. No more." He stepped out of his friend's grasp and entered the cab. By standing just past the door, he hoped to pass on the message that Jacques wasn't welcomed for the ride down.
The doors closed behind him only then did he turn to ready for when he'd have to emerge into the pit where the reporters waited.
His hand rested on his chest to calm the rapid pumping of his heart. Cold sweat beaded on his brow. Deep down at the bottom of his gut, fear bobbed and weaved with his conscience. If he gave in to the panic, his knees would surely buckle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T he elevator's final chime alerted Damien that again he'd face the reporters gathered outside of the building. The doors slid open like an invitation from hell. As soon as his shoulders could clear the entrance, he stepped out into the lobby.
Ahead the view instantly raised his revulsion.
And his feet slowed on their own volition.
Additional reporters stretched all along the front side of the building. The unobstructed view through the glass edifice meant that they could see him too.
"I'm not in the mood." He swore under his breath.
The elevator doors swished closed behind him. His handy escape route existed no longer.
He squinted at the reporters buzzing and flitting among themselves. Several of them caught sight of him and helped spread the news to each other.
Damien couldn't stop cursing. To show steely resolve, to face the hounds, he'd have to dig deep.
Big breath in. Big breath out. He proceeded onward with the matching dread of an emergency root canal.
"Mr. Laurent, are you prepared to make a statement?" One reporter stepped ahead of the group as soon as Damien emerged outside.
He ignored the bespectacled woman and her annoying questions. To escape her attention, he squared his shoulders and soldiered on through the crowd. Walking the gauntlet with men and women on either side pressing in with their questions was an eerie mix of his reality and fears.
Just push on. And don't stop . Don't answer .
What may have been minutes on the receiving end of rapidly fired questions felt like a hike up a steep slope. By the time he passed the last of the tenacious reporters, he almost fast-walked his way to the end of the line.
Reporters cleared a zigzagged path for him.
He blinked unsure if the stress hampered his eyesight.
Anna ?
His pulse danced an erratic cadence.
Anna .
He tried not to race toward her.
"You are so worried about my health. If I sit in this seat any longer, I'm bound to pop a blood vessel. You started this company, but we've helped build it. We all have done our part and earned our part. Now that Dane suddenly wants to idolize the money gods with cutthroat tactics, we have to dance to his tune. Fire me, retire me, whatever you want to call it. I've had enough." He pushed back his chair so hard it slid back and hit the wall.
"Damien, sit down." His father's voice was low.
"No. We're done here. You've made it clear that this isn't a family business. It's just business."
"Damien—"
He raised his hand to stop Dallon's apology or roundabout Kumbaya philosophy on the situation.
His father's voice thundered after him as he headed for the door.
Unlike his march into the building, now he walked out with an unsettled feeling that a chapter was closing in his life. Familiar pressure stacked like a formidable wall in his chest. He smoothed his shirt mentally pushing down, pushing back the gut-wrenching sensation of a dark free fall.
"This will pass." Jacques stepped out of the shadows of the hallway.
Damien focused on placing one foot in front of the other to add distance from his family.
"Your father is under a lot of stress." Jacques's footsteps followed closely.
Damien stabbed the elevator button and prayed that the doors would slide open quickly. His pulse thudded in his head like a fist pounding at his skull. He stabbed at the button again.
"Listen, son." Jacques's hand gripped his shoulder as the door opened.
"No. No more." He stepped out of his friend's grasp and entered the cab. By standing just past the door, he hoped to pass on the message that Jacques wasn't welcomed for the ride down.
The doors closed behind him only then did he turn to ready for when he'd have to emerge into the pit where the reporters waited.
His hand rested on his chest to calm the rapid pumping of his heart. Cold sweat beaded on his brow. Deep down at the bottom of his gut, fear bobbed and weaved with his conscience. If he gave in to the panic, his knees would surely buckle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T he elevator's final chime alerted Damien that again he'd face the reporters gathered outside of the building. The doors slid open like an invitation from hell. As soon as his shoulders could clear the entrance, he stepped out into the lobby.
Ahead the view instantly raised his revulsion.
And his feet slowed on their own volition.
Additional reporters stretched all along the front side of the building. The unobstructed view through the glass edifice meant that they could see him too.
"I'm not in the mood." He swore under his breath.
The elevator doors swished closed behind him. His handy escape route existed no longer.
He squinted at the reporters buzzing and flitting among themselves. Several of them caught sight of him and helped spread the news to each other.
Damien couldn't stop cursing. To show steely resolve, to face the hounds, he'd have to dig deep.
Big breath in. Big breath out. He proceeded onward with the matching dread of an emergency root canal.
"Mr. Laurent, are you prepared to make a statement?" One reporter stepped ahead of the group as soon as Damien emerged outside.
He ignored the bespectacled woman and her annoying questions. To escape her attention, he squared his shoulders and soldiered on through the crowd. Walking the gauntlet with men and women on either side pressing in with their questions was an eerie mix of his reality and fears.
Just push on. And don't stop . Don't answer .
What may have been minutes on the receiving end of rapidly fired questions felt like a hike up a steep slope. By the time he passed the last of the tenacious reporters, he almost fast-walked his way to the end of the line.
Reporters cleared a zigzagged path for him.
He blinked unsure if the stress hampered his eyesight.
Anna ?
His pulse danced an erratic cadence.
Anna .
He tried not to race toward her.
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