Without Merit Novels & Stories

“Let me ask you something, Liliana. How much do you actually know about running a company? About leadership? Market strategies? Anything remotely relevant to this role?” She hesitated, and that was all the answer I needed. “That’s what I thought,” I said, my voice like velvet over steel. “You came here expecting your last name and your uncle’s influence to do all the work for you. But Whitmore Company doesn’t run on favors or handouts. It runs on merit. And if you’re upset that you don’t measure up, that’s not my problem.” The small crowd that had gathered to watch the exchange was utterly silent, their eyes darting between us like they were watching a tennis match.

"Master told you that? Bullsh*t" "They want you because you're immune and kill you because you're part of us, especially your skills and records" "How do they know? Without f*cking telling me?" I step forth to her seat while yet she held up her glass of champagne. "Your medical documents say so" "Say so about what?" "You have the virus but none affects you" "Woah is it a blessing eh? " I sarcastically said. "About the business anyways, you are my substitute fighter to compromise our event and you to carry yourself to the finals so we can fetch good currency"

She shouts. I agree with her, “And you like it.” Wyatt shakes her head, “Gross. No I do not. Not at all. Not one bit. Not even close.” She’s so defensive. She must really want some of this. “Just keep telling yourself that.” I say to her. “Nothing about this is professional.” She states her case. “I don’t believe that professionalism was in the contract you signed.” She smacks my arm, “Physical altercation wasn’t listed either.” Good observation, “Be careful what you wish for.” I raise my hand.

She shushes me and I sigh, "But it's true. " "It's not. " She argues, moving her head from my chest. She keeps her other hand on me as she says, "I understand how you feel, because I've once felt that. There's a time in our lives when we all feel like we have no idea where it's going, or what we'll do next, but that doesn't mean we won't figure it out in the end. You're not worthless, Emerson. You're more worthy than you think you are, and you should never think anything less. Besides, you love art. You love to draw, you love to read books and you love nature. Isn't that saying something?"

It didn't make us anything. "We're not family." The words tasted bitter. "Our parents got married. That doesn't make us anything to each other." He turned and the look he gave me goosebumps. "You're right. We're not family. We're nothing." That shouldn't have hurt but it did. I lifted my chin. "Then hire me based on merit. Not history." He moved closer and I had to fight not to step back. He was tall enough that I had to tilt my head to meet his eyes. Close enough that I could smell his cologne.

Then another message. “For your own good.” The words were simple. The intent behind them wasn’t. She stared at the screen, her heartbeat sharp and uneven. And somewhere across the city, Dominic Valente watched his phone light up with the delivery notification, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. Because the warning wasn’t supposed to hurt him too. She was becoming a fracture in his discipline, and she didn’t even know it. Every day, resisting her felt less like strength and more like self-punishment.

"Merit means creating work that says something true. That explores genuine questions. That connects with people in meaningful ways." "Does your work do those things?" "I think so. I hope so." "Then the article's critique is about taste and ideology, not about the actual value of what you create. They have a particular view of what contemporary art should be. Your work does not fit that view. That does not make your work invalid. It makes it different from what they prefer." After the session, I felt marginally better. The article was opinion, not objective truth. My work had merit regardless of whether Art Forum's particular critic appreciated it.

And it wasn’t mercy. Not this time.

I knelt, begging for forgiveness. Who would've thought that I would, one day, deceive myself like this? Soon enough, I realized Adrian was my last lifeline. The lawsuit demanded enormous resources. I poured nearly half of Thompson Group into it. Everyone said I'd gone mad—even more so than Harry. I no longer cared. The bone marrow compatibility results and the reply from the research facility arrived at the same time. I arranged for Adrian to meet me. He knew exactly why I was there. He took the report. Before leaving, he flashed me a mocking smile.

It's a meritocracy here too, but there's different types of merits—being a good fighter is one, but virtue and wit trumps that. "Naturally, I don't want this outfit to be reduced to a one-man show, and no one—be it Jada or someone else—will stand on top permanently. Naturally, I won't worry about the fact that we were enemies before either, since none of you can really fight back. "That's why I encourage everyone to be ambitious. If you believe you can beat Jada, I will happily promote you—that is, if you prove to be better to change my mind." Everyone nodded in understanding at Frank's words.