Page 1 of Executive Privilege

Chapter 1: The Challenge

The presentation that was supposed to make or break my first month at Event Horizons just got hijacked—by the man whose name is on the damn building.

Nicholas Blackwood.

He’s standing at the head of the sleek glass conference table, hands tucked into the pockets of a tailored charcoal suit. The city skyline stretches behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but no one’s looking at the view. Not when Nicholas Blackwood is in the room. Especially not when he's looking at me the way he is now.

Cool. Controlled. Calculating. Waiting for me to back down or step up.

Guess which one I’m choosing.

“Ms. Reynolds,” he says, and his voice is low and rich. “Would you care to explain why we’re recommending a complete rebrand for Morrison Industries, when the client specifically requested campaign optimization?”

The air in the room tightens. Twelve people sit around the table—account managers, analysts, creatives. Half of them shift uncomfortably in their seats. The other half lean forward, eager for blood. I can practically hear the mental betting pool opening up.

And Nicholas? He doesn’t move. He just watches me, his dark brown eyes sharp as cut glass, waiting to see if I’ll fold under pressure.

Spoiler: I won’t.

I meet his gaze and give him a calm smile. “Because optimization assumes the foundation is solid,” I say, voice steady despite the adrenaline crackling under my skin. “Morrison’s brand identity is about as cohesive as a toddler’s finger painting. You can’t optimize broken.”

The room goes still.

Someone coughs. A stifled laugh comes from my left. I don't need to look to know who it is—Marcu, probably. He loves drama.

Nicholas’s brow arches, just a fraction, but it’s enough to register the smallest hint of something behind that impassive mask—surprise? Amusement? A flicker of interest?

“Interesting analogy,” he says. “Continue.”

The way he says it—measured, controlled, but with the barest edge of curiosity—should probably make me nervous. But it doesn’t. Not really. What it does is make my stomach twist, and not entirely from anxiety.

He’s testing me. And if there’s one thing I’m not afraid of, it’s proving someone wrong.

“Morrison Industries has been around for forty years,” I say, advancing the slide behind me. “But their current brand ecosystem is fractured. Their logo hasn’t been updated since 1987. Their messaging strategy contradicts itself across platforms, and their demographic analysis is based on research from before I could walk.”

I pause, then add, “Heck, before you could walk.” I say think knowing he's likely only about five years older than me.

A few people chuckle under their breath, but I keep my eyes on Nicholas. His mouth doesn’t move, but something in his jawflexes. He shifts slightly in his stance, his broad shoulders rolling as he crosses his arms.

I was completely myself when he interviewed me; he should have known this is what he would get with me.

He takes off his jacket and drapes it over his chair. I notice how the fabric of his shirt stretches over his chest, and his tanned, veined, strong forearms as he rolls up his sleeves. God help me.

He's buying time. Thinking it over. I wonder if he's purposely trying to distract me with his little display.

“And you determined this how?” he asks, tone clipped.

“By doing my job,” I reply, sharper than I meant to, but I don’t backpedal. “I’ve spent every night this week reviewing market trends, sentiment data, and competitor positioning. Morrison isn’t losing market share because their ads are bad. They’re losing because no one under fifty knows what the hell they do anymore.”

Another slide click. Another glance from Nicholas. That same quiet intensity, like he’s cataloging my every movement.

I'm fully aware that what I'm saying out loud in front of everyone could be career-limiting, since this account is not new to Event Horizons Marketing Agency, and the things I'm saying could easily be taken personally.

“This is Morrison compared to their top three competitors across brand recognition, consumer trust, and purchase intent,” I explain. “They’re being crushed by companies that figured out how to talk to modern consumers while Morrison is still chasing the glory days of print ads and cheesy jingles. I know this is the direction they gave us, but it's time we educate them, don't you think?”

Silence. Thick, humming, charged silence.

Nicholas doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. The way he watches me says enough. He’s processing. Calculating. Maybe impressed. Maybe furious. I genuinely can’t tell.