Page 4 of I Think Olive You

“You mentioned it wasn’t solely his,” I prompt, interested in my father’s business dealings for the first time in years. My father was a lone wolf; kill or be killed. Partnership is the antithesis of what Thomas Palmer stood for.

“Not at all. Not even majority ownership.” Alan pushes the stack of papers toward me but I stare at the lawyer in shock, wanting to wring whatever information I can from the man before I turn to the inexpressive legal jargon waiting on the desk.

“Then why?” Why bother? Why even bring it up?

“Despite your differences, Thomas only wanted you to succeed, Matt. You have to know that.” Alan’s attempt at sincerity is about as believable as his hairline.

“Enough, Alan. You don’t need to blow smoke up my ass. We both know my father was disappointed to have sired such a lazy sack of shit. I’m not ruthless like he was—cunning in life or business. I have too much of my mother’s weakness in me. He made that evident.” I clear my throat of the unexpected emotion gathering at the memory of his parting shot at us—before the movers cleared out his closet, and I heard his Italian leathers clack on the penthouse floor for the last time. The room feels stifling despite the frigid air conditioning covering my skin with gooseflesh. I have to get out of here.

Soon.

Now.

Although this building has been nonsmoking for years, I hit my vape to calm some nerves. Hell, knowing it will piss Alan off sweetens the deal. My deep breath is followed by a plume sent in Alan’s direction.

“I’m not so clear on why you’re even telling me this. If we—I—whoever doesn’t even own this property outright, why waste time or resources on it?” It’s the most financially-sound point I’ve ever made. And all of it just to find a way out of the room as soon as possible.

“You could.” Alan wafts his hand in front of his face to clear the air and gives me a disgusted look before he pushes the papers closer to me. “Own the whole property, I mean.”

I look down at the brief impression of a contract, aging ink faded into the yellowing paper. Old. Older than me.

“Why the fuck would I want to do that?” I ask, sucking in more of the nicotine to calm my nerves. My patience wears thin, my attempt at being polite fraying with every second I’m holed up in this towering metal coffin.

“Jesus, Matt. You know you can’t smoke in here. Come on.”

I take one last drag before I stash it again and he pushes on.

“Aren’t you tired of it? Your father’s shadow?” Alan asks, the honesty of it drawing my full attention. The lawyer looks at me with what I consider a genuine expression for the first time I can remember before he urges, “This is your chance. You’re not your father. Anyone with eyes and a Forbes subscription can see it. But it doesn’t mean you can’t be something else.”

It sounds important, or like Alan thinks it’s important.

“And how do I go about doing that?” When his name eclipses everything you do and no one can see beyond it.

Alan points at the front page. “In the contract, there’s a stipulation, a clause your father put on his investment. Despite being small change compared to what we deal with now, he still had a sound mind for planning back in the day.” Alan sounds proud, and I know he loves this job, every grimy moment.

“The clause states if the investor, your father—or you for all intents and purposes—can prove his investment has not been returned or that there’s not enough of a success margin… it all reverts to you. The exact parameters are in the contract, which is in Italian, so I leave it up to you to figure out.”

“So, I’m going in there for a hostile takeover?” The idea turns my stomach.

“Not hostile. The old partner is dead, same as your dad, and these few scraps won’t make a difference to our bottom line. It might be an opportunity to find something… forge something for yourself that doesn’t have your dad’s name splashed all over it.”

Abundantia, the contract reads, the name as far away from Palmer Enterprises as one can get.

“So, you want me to see if this asset is worth procuring? And if I fuck it up, no harm done because it’s not tied to the business?” I mean it rhetorically, but Alan smirks and nods, unabashed in his lack of faith.

“Can you honestly say you have something better to do?” Alan asks, and before I can retort he adds, almost gently, “I think you need this. It’s a farm of some kind—crops, not animals. Get a feel for a slower pace for a change. You look like shit.”

My mind flashes to the sick lurch of the parties—the cramping stomach and the spinning ceilings. Not better. No.

I shrug in response, unable to word what I’m feeling. And not wanting to name the dread that sits in the passenger seat with me and has for the last few weeks—hell, months if I’m being honest.

“What’s in it for you?” I ask.

“Less than what’s in it for you, kid.” Alan pulls another stack of papers from his drawer and chucks them—one by one. Sheets of newspapers, tabloids, and print-outs of online articles land with a thunk in front of me. Weeks of indiscretions pile up and end with last night’s exploits.

Playing With Fire! Heir to Palmer fortune spotted

The headline is innocuous, as far as they can be when clickbait rules the day. It’s the text below it, the blurry image of me with a half-naked?—