Mr ceo, p.1
Mr CEO, page 1
Mr CEO
Davina MacDonald
Copyright 2023 Davina Mac Donald
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotation in a book review. For permission requests, email to davinamacd@gmail.com
Note that this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblances to people, living or dead, places, business establishments or locales is completely coincidental. The author recognizes the copyrights and trademarks of all registered works and products mentioned within this work.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
About The Author
Chapter One
Chanel
“I thought you wouldn’t make it. I was just about to leave.” Jen, my assistant, pushes my cup of coffee towards me as I slide into the booth of our favourite coffee shop.
“It’s Monday. I am allowed to not be at 100% capacity on a Monday. I thought we agreed on that,” I grumble back at her.
Jen’s eyebrows shoot up. “Capacity, yes. Not punctuality.”
“Can’t they be the same thing on a Monday?” I ask, settling into the seat.
“Should I note that as a consistent rule for future applications?” Jen claps back, and I pull a face at her.
“I’m sorry. I had a tough time getting started this morning.”
“And here I thought you’d be amped and eager to get back to the office.” Jen snips, and I am unable to suppress the yawn. She rolls her eyes. “You just got back from a two-week vacation Chanel. You’re supposed to feel rested.”
I scoff, dropping my bag on the seat next to me. “I'm more exhausted now than before I went away.”
I brush a hand over my hair, taming the stray black strands the wind blew out of place.
“Vacation is supposed to be a time of peace. But then again, you’re you. You get antsy when you sit on the toilet for too long.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at Jen’s comment. She knows my vacation wasn’t exactly for R&R.
I drove back home for two weeks to attend my younger brother’s wedding. It was the first time in three years that I visited home for more than a weekend. And the town was just as I left it, minus a few elderly townies that kicked the bucket in the last 36 months. I spent most of my time visiting family members, being caught up on what’s happened since I left and evading questions about my life in the city. Plus, the wedding of the decade was hosted by my family, and I don’t think there was one living town member that was not on the guest list. Which all translated to not a day’s worth of rest for me.
“You know my family. Not even the dust mites in our house get a break.”
“How was the wedding?” Jen asks, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
I stare at my coffee, focusing on the similar colour between the milky beverage and my light brown skin. Typical me, shifting my focus to something as menial as the colour of my coffee so I don’t have to think about an acceptable answer to Jen’s question.
The wedding was spectacular. I had never seen my little brother so happy. But weddings are also massive family gatherings. So, I spent most of the night lifting my obnoxiously long bridesmaid’s dress and running from aunts that wanted to know when my big day will be. Not to mention, my little brother is a solid six years younger than me, which made my 30-year-old ass feel ancient and expired.
I don’t often dwell on the topic of marriage and family since it’s not a goal I have ever had. Work has been my focus for the past 8 years. That focus has led me to become the youngest HR manager at Markinof Intelligence. I am also the longest-serving employee besides the executive staff. But admittedly, being amongst my family forced me to face my reality. A reality which has left me feeling a little glum. Not that I have time for anything besides work.
“The wedding was beautiful,” I say, with finality in my voice.
As much as I love Jen, I don’t wish to hash out the details of my vacation and the unwelcome realization I have come to.
My gaze drifts to outside and a sudden wave of fear grips my chest when I see my car parked on the side of the road. I pull out my car keys and press the immobilizer button once again. I watch and breathe a sigh of relief when I see the headlights of the vehicle flash quickly. I store my keys back in my bag.
Jen chuckles over her cup of green tea. “You still do that?”
I frown and take my cup of coffee. “Just double checking,” I say with a hint of embarrassment.
I’m paranoid. I know that. I can make a mental note when I lock my front door, only to lose the mental note and drive back home to make sure I actually locked it. I’ve long ago stopped trying to control my paranoia. It will forever be part of me, and I know it’s also one of the major contributors to my constant state of anxiety.
I take a quick sip of coffee before pulling out my phone. It’s 7:11 am, which means Jen and I have 19 minutes to get to the office. Technically, we only have to be on-site at 8, but as the HR manager, I believe in setting an example. I like to be the first one at work and the last one that leaves.
“How is my day looking so far?” I probe, scanning the increasing crowd inside the coffee shop.
Jen quickly swallows a sip of tea before diving into her bag and pulling out my fluffy pink datebook. I am always amused when I see it.
I’m monochromatic when it comes to my choice of clothes. I like wearing dark and neutral tones. Nothing flashy or ostentatious. The monotony of my wardrobe works for me. My work environment is far from monotone. The eccentric datebook is just one small example.
Jen opens it, pulls out the pen and starts reading, “Well, you have a meeting with the CEO today at 8 am. It’s a little early for the old man if you ask me. But this one is written in crystal blue ink.”
I frown. Jen’s beloved crystal blue ink pen ran out more than 5 months ago, which means this meeting has been in the books for way longer than that. I groan, “Oh. I’ll need another cup of coffee if I have to sit through a meeting with Pappa Markinof for an hour.”
The corners of Jen’s mouth twist down. “This meeting is sprawled across six slots, Chanel.”
My eyes widen, and I habitually adjust my glasses. Something I do when I don’t like what I’m hearing. “Wait, you mean to tell me that is a three-hour meeting?”
She nods slowly. “It’s the planning meeting you have once a semester.”
“Shit. I totally forgot about that one. I should’ve scheduled my leave until Tuesday.” I moan in frustration. Cedric Markinof is a great boss. A little on the weird side, but I adore him regardless. He’s treated me with respect for the last 8 years. 5 of those years, I have been the HR manager at his company. But being subjected to a three-hour meeting with him and the rest of the exec team is a bit much for me this early in the morning. Especially since my part of the yearly development plan is nearing completion. It feels like a waste of time for me to sit through it.
“Can I call in and say I have the flu?” I question, my face still twisted in distaste.
The grin on Jen’s face can only be described as sarcastic. “Like the last time you were sick?”
I groan inwardly at the memory. I had a feeling Jen was going to bring that up.
A year after I started at Markinof Intelligence as a basic clerk, I was taken to bed by the nastiest flu of the decade. It took me 2 weeks to recover, and even after I returned to work, I wasn’t 100% myself until months later. The memory of that time in my life still makes my chest hurt. And it’s not from the coughing fit I had to endure almost once an hour.
After I returned from my sick bed, I was relocated to a different branch of the company. Literally on the other side of the country, to be the personal assistant to one of the most dickish human beings in existence: the company CFO. I had to give up my life and my family for a job. Looking back now, it was the best thing that could’ve happened to me. But at the time, it felt like too big a risk to take. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of saying no to a promotion like that. So, I started packing up my life in the Northern Cape. Three weeks after I was informed of the transfer, I found myself on a bus, travelling to the company headquarters in Cape Town and embarked on a new journey.
“Okay, so that was a bad excuse,” I mumble, and she laughs.
Life under the CFO turned out to be the most gruelling corner of hell I have ever encountered, and I’ve trudged through some difficult shit in my life. The constant mental abuse motivated me to get out from under his thumb as fast as I could. Which meant studying my ass off. I started to attend online classes and worked to upskill myself in Human resource managemen t. Before I had even spent a year under Don ‘Dickhead’ Jefferson’s reign of terror, I was added to the company’s skills development program to further my studies through the business.
Due to my practical needs for the program, I was transferred again. This time into the HR division. My mentor, Samantha, taught me the skills that books couldn’t. She motivated me to pursue my studies on my own. I achieved my honours and completed the company training shortly after each other. My dedication caught the attention of Mr Markinof himself. Within 3 years of my relocation, I was promoted to HR manager for the Cape Town headquarters of Markinof Intelligence.
“What else is on the schedule besides Markinof?” I ask, needing to have the full picture of my week in my head before I begin the usual spiral down a black hole of exhaustion.
Jen taps the datebook, “You have the meeting with the committee at 11 to work out the last of the planning for the ball. Then some staff requested sessions from 12 until three, 30 minutes each, and then a meeting with Finance about the adjusted hours for the cleaning staff. Then on Tuesday, you have three off-site meetings: Ben from Westward Tech about the new employee database software, Louisa from our new division in India, and Fielding from the Edgefield Country Estate.”
I frown. “Why am I seeing him again?”
She pulls her tablet closer, and I watch as her email app launches. “Fielding made some changes to the original rental quote for the staff ball.” I watch the screen as she scrolls through the information at lightning speed. “According to the email thread, there is a small increase in the cost of renting the hall. But with the added bonus of the estate staff doing the décor and the clean-up.”
I tap my chin a few times, “Right. That’s a good deal considering our past with them. I can’t skip that. Plus, it will save us on the clean-up crew.”
Jen nods, “I think they’re still trying to recover capital since the hall was out of commission for almost a year after the fire.”
“Probably. Edgefield is Markinof’s favourite for big social events, so we’ll give them a fair shot to state their case. Maybe I can push for the estate to do the catering too.”
She looks up from her tablet, her nose scrunched up. “After the last event they catered, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I groan, “Damn, I forgot about the shellfish incident.” My gaze drifts across the coffee shop crowd before returning back to Jen. “Well, we’re closing in tight on our budget for the event. Wherever we can save a few, we have to try.”
Jen cocks her head to the side. "Are you going?"
I take a sip of my coffee, savouring the taste in my mouth. “Obviously, I'll be going. We need to finalize the last details for the ball. It’s coming down on us quite fast.”
She sighs in exasperation, “Not the meeting, Chanel. The ball. Will you be going to the ball?”
I shrug and look down at the table. “I don’t know.”
Jen closes the book and crosses her hands over it. “You should go. It’s the event of the year for the staff, and after all the work you’ve put in to make it special, you should be there to enjoy it. Or at the least to see your hard work.”
I close my eyes for a second. I know what she’s trying to do, and it’s genuinely sweet, but after the wedding, my social meter is maxed out.
“I’ll think about it,” I say with a heavy heart.
She eyes me suspiciously, and I know she doesn’t believe me. “Well, let me know what you decide because we’ll have to go shopping. Black pant suits won’t work for a ball.”
I glance down at my clothes. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”
She scoffs, “Aside from the fact that this is all you wear to work, it’s a ball, Chanel. You’ll need a dress. Preferably one that doesn’t fall on the dark side of the colour spectrum.”
I bite my lip, keeping the snarky rebuttal to myself.
Jen has had a problem with my choice of office attire for years. She says I look like I’m headed to a funeral every day. I won’t exactly phrase it like that, but I can see why she makes that leap. I wear black pantsuits every day, with a blouse that is more often a neutral colour. It’s a practical choice. It hides my God-given curves, of which I have plenty.
And since I am one of three females in an 18-person management team, being taken seriously as a woman is no easy feat. I have both confidence and brains, but that doesn’t mean that people will listen to what I say. Especially if my ass and tits are a distraction. It’s misogynistic on my part, but it’s worked so far. I get shit done and done right. I’d like to think it’s because of my work ethic and not my physical appearance. Plus, having a pre-set outfit saves time. I don’t spend hours in front of my closet every morning, agonizing over what to wear. It’s as convenient as having a uniform.
“What about the rest of the week?” I ask, needing her to drop the topic of the staff ball.
Jen pauses for a second before flipping the datebook open again. She rambles off the rest of my appointments, which included 2 days full of interviews, a half-day conference and a meeting with the contractors who will be redoing the cafeteria. I rub my temples. The week hasn’t even started, and already I’m bone tired.
“Sounds like I’ll need a head start. How about that coffee to go?” I hint at Jen, who catches my drift and flags down a waiter. Jen scoots out of the booth, and I frown at the size of her baby bump. “Are you sure you don’t have two in there?” I inquire, and she laughs.
“Positive. Devan makes the doctor check every visit.”
After quickly giving in our order, we gather our things and head for the counter. My face remains twisted. “Seriously, Jen, I know you’re more than eight weeks away, but it looks like you’re just about done with all this. You shouldn’t be working.”
She shrugs, waddling to the pay point. “I will bite through my nails if I stay home. Until this kid decides it’s time, I will be checking in at the office every day. I really wish you would consider going to the ball. It might be good for you.” She probes further, diverting the topic away from her pregnancy, and I leave her to poke. I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I’m leaning heavily towards not going. I have way too much going on to still be concerned with attending the ball and spending an evening in heels, making small talk.
After paying for our coffee, we grab our mugs and head for the door.
The blood-curdling shriek that echoes through the coffee shop rings in my ears, and it takes me a hot minute to realize it came from me.
“Chanel!” Jen’s panicked voice pulls me back to reality, and she starts patting me down with serviettes. I grab my shirt between two fingers and quickly pull it away. My quick reaction doesn't save me from having coffee seep through the thin material onto my skin.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my chest burning as the hot liquid makes contact with my body.
“What the hell, lady?” The audible irritancy in the male voice that speaks above my head makes fury flare up in me to just about the same temperature as the coffee, which is causing first-degree burns on my skin. “Will you watch where you’re going?”
He continues to chastise me, but I ignore him, grabbing a handful of serviettes from the waiter beside me. I desperately try to clean up the mess on my clothes. It’s no use. The grey blouse has a dark stain right down the middle, and if I’m not careful, it will reveal my less-than-sexy bra to a coffee shop full of curious eyes.
“Dammit, I have a meeting in a half hour. Now, look at me.”
For the first time, I actually look up at the voice that has spent the last 60 seconds publicly giving me shit. My brain registers that he’s more than marginally attractive, but I’m too focused on his temper, which is all over the place. My eyes drop to his shirt, which is also plastered with coffee, though significantly less than mine. I throw the serviettes on the nearest empty table and dig in my bag.
I stuff my business card in his hand and glare at him, “Send the dry-cleaning bill to this email address.” I say and step around him.
“You’re not going to apologize?” He calls after me, and my hand pauses on their way to locate my car keys in my bag. I look up, biting the inside of my cheek to reign in my own anger.
