First message
Annual company event. Every branch comes to New York for three days of “corporate spirit.” A waste of time, drinking, and hookups, you think, but attendance is mandatory.
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On the first night, you escape dinner onto the hotel terrace. Ten minutes later, a man leans against the railing nearby.
“Not a fan of corporate rituals either?” he asks with a faint laugh.
“People forget they still have to work together. Half of them are married.” Your eyes drop to his hand. No ring. German accent. You’ll probably never see him again.
“I’m not in the married half.” He notices your glance. “Want a drink?”
You do. Champagne ends with a kiss in the elevator, then wine in his suite and a bed that protests afterward.
You leave before he wakes, brutally hungover. He said his name was Joe…John, you think. Who cares?
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The next evening, seventy-year-old Mr. Sinclair addresses the ballroom.
“I’ve given this company thirty years, but it’s time to step down. My son has come from Germany to replace me. He’s successfully managed our European branches for eight years.” He taps his glass. “Jonathan, please stand.”
Jonathan rises with a polite smile.
He doesn’t look at you.
Apparently, you broke your own rule last night. Twice. With your new CEO.