Chapter 3: A Taste Of Trouble

MARION

The boardroom at The Whitfield Diamonds Corporation LLC always smelled faintly of polished mahogany and tension. A dozen men in suits leaned forward around the long table, their eyes darting between the financial projections I’d put up on the screen and the silent figure of my father at the head of the table, with the new CEO at his side. My father only attends important meetings here.

I cleared my throat, tapping the clicker in my hand. “As you can see, operating costs in South Africa have risen eight percent this quarter, largely due to increased security measures and labor adjustments. If we don’t reallocate from the underperforming European branches, we’ll cut into margins faster than we can recover them.”

A murmur ran through the room. One of the older directors adjusted his cufflinks before speaking. “But shifting the budget from Antwerp? That branch has been in our family portfolio for fifty years—”

I cut him off, firm but calm. “Tradition doesn’t pay the bills, gentlemen. Profit does. And right now, Antwerp bleeds cash while Botswana and Namibia keep us afloat. If we continue honoring the past instead of investing in the present, we won’t be talking about legacy, we’ll be talking about liquidation.”

Across the table, my father, Maxwell Whitfield, leaned back in his chair. He said nothing, his expression carved from stone, but his silence carried weight. Everyone in the room was waiting for him to intervene, but this was his game. He liked to test me, to see if I’d bend under pressure or stand my ground.

I clicked to the next slide, the numbers stark and undeniable. “I propose a twenty percent budget reallocation, away from stagnant European markets and into our African expansion. Additionally, we trim unnecessary luxuries from the corporate accounts. Private jets for mid-level executives? Gone. Sponsorships that don’t deliver measurable PR value? Cut.”

The CFO part of me thrived in these moments, the clarity of numbers, the strategy of turning chaos into order. Still, there was always that whisper in the back of my mind: None of this is yours.

The hotels, the casinos, those were mine. My empire. But here, in Whitfield Diamond Corporation, I was the dutiful son, the financial steward of a dynasty built long before I was born. Being the CFO is just a bonus to my net worth.

Finally, my father spoke, his voice low, deliberate. “You’ve made your point, Marion. Reallocate the budget. But understand this: cutting legacy branches is not just a matter of numbers. It is a matter of respect. Our name carries weight.”

I met his gaze evenly. “Respect doesn’t keep us in the black. I’ll protect the family’s empire, Father, but I won’t bankroll nostalgia.”

A flicker of something, approval, maybe irritation, passed through his eyes. And then he nodded once, dismissing the room. The meeting was over.

As I gathered my papers and stood up, my father finally broke the silence.

“Good job, son,” he said, tapping my shoulder.

“Thank you, sir,” I replied, a faint smirk tugging at my lips.

He walked toward the door, then glanced back. “Pass by my office, your mother needs to talk with you.”

I nodded and followed.

Inside his office, the familiar scent of leather and old books filled the air. My mother was already there, seated elegantly by the window. The moment my father stepped in, his face softened. He crossed the room, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her warmly, passionately, as though decades of marriage hadn’t dulled a thing.

I shuddered, shaking my head. This couple.

Clearing my throat, I muttered, “I’m right here, you know.”

My father shot me a look, amused. “Then go and find yourself a good woman, son.” He shrugged, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” my mother chimed in, her eyes bright with that familiar mix of affection and mischief. “I don’t approve of Paula,” she added, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if daring me to challenge her.

I needed to find myself a wife, if only to keep my mother from circling me like a hawk every time I walked into a room. The thought had barely formed before another flashed just as quickly, the pretty woman from Friday night.

Damn her.

It was Monday now, and she was still in my head. The way she’d looked at me, the way she’d smelled. Sweet, sharp, like strawberries laced with trouble. I clenched my jaw, irritated with myself.

I needed a distraction. A warm body, a quick night, something to burn her out of my system. Maybe if I got laid, I’d forget about her. About that scent that wouldn’t leave me alone.

I groaned. “Please. Can we change the topic? You needed to talk to me?”

My father finally released my mother from his embrace, and she smoothed the front of her silk blouse before turning to me with that all-too-familiar glint in her eyes, the one that meant business.

“Now,” she said, reaching into her leather folder, “to the actual reason I asked you here. The contract has been signed.”

I frowned slightly. “Which contract?”

“The one for the charity gala,” she replied smoothly, sliding a crisp document across the desk. “The desserts. The baker has agreed. We’ll be meeting her on Thursday for the first tasting.”

I leaned back in the chair, loosening the cuff of my shirt. “You called me here to discuss… pastries?”

My father chuckled, settling into his seat behind the desk. “Don’t sound so bored, son. Your mother takes her galas seriously. And when she says you’ll be present, you’ll be present.”

I glanced between them. “With all due respect, I have an expansion budget to finalize for the African operations. Do you need me there to nod at dessert?”

My mother’s eyes sharpened. “It is not just dessert. These galas carry our name, our reputation. If I trust someone new to deliver, then I expect you, as Chief Financial Officer, to ensure she meets Whitfield standards, and you are addicted to the cookies already. ” She laughs loudly.

I exhaled, resisting the urge to argue. It wasn’t worth it. With my mother, there never really was an argument, just her decision and the illusion of my choice.

“Fine,” I said at last, my tone edged with dry amusement. “Thursday, eleven. I’ll taste the desserts. What’s her name?”

My mother’s lips curved faintly as she tapped the contract. “Demetria.”

I repeated it under my breath. “Demetria.” A name that sounded foreign to our marble halls, but brings lightness where everything here felt heavy.

“Never heard of her,” I muttered, rising to my feet.

“You will,” my mother replied, that enigmatic smile never faltering. Then, as if she had been waiting for this moment, she reached into a small bag beside her chair. “She sent something for you. Gave Stephen cinnamon cookies to pass along. I told her my son loves them.”

She set the neat little parcel on the desk in front of me.

“Hmmm,” I drawled, cracking a smile, “I hope they’re not infused.”

My father smirked knowingly, shaking his head and sliding a cigar from the box on his desk. “Seems like Thursday might be more interesting than you think.”

I ignored the remark, collecting my papers, together with the cookies. I need to see this baker. I’ll speak to Stephen.

But as I walked toward the door, I caught myself saying the name again, quietly this time, as though testing it against the weight of the Whitfield empire.

“Demetria.”