After reaching an agreement on the terms of their collaboration and the benefits both companies would reap, they sealed the conversation with a handshake.
"I'm surprised Mr. Dashiel Nilsson still isn't married," Mr. William's wife remarked as they walked to the car.
"As I said — he's just like his father. If the late Mr. Nilsson ever managed to get married, it was entirely thanks to the late Mrs. Nilsson's initiative." Mr. William chuckled at the memory of the Nilsson wedding. The bride had marched down the aisle with the bearing of someone who'd just won a hard-fought campaign. Many had predicted the marriage wouldn't last, but time had proven them all wrong. Somehow, the two had become a remarkably harmonious couple.
"I'm afraid the only way a Nilsson man will ever end up in a happy marriage is if the right partner finds him first," Mr. William said, patting his wife's hand gently. She smiled at his words and thought he was probably right.
Dashiel was in his car heading back to the office when his assistant took a call. The general manager had failed to report certain irregularities, and the resulting problems — while not critical — had caused delays.
"Sir, what should we do?" the assistant asked, his voice flat with resignation. He was absolutely certain he'd be getting home extremely late tonight.
"Tell everyone I want them back in the conference room. Nobody leaves until this is resolved," Dashiel said, his voice hard as he pressed his fingers against his temples. These kinds of trivial problems hadn't happened when Ciel Cowell held the general manager position. And if they had, Cowell would have handled them without Dashiel needing to lift a finger. Unfortunately, Cowell was long gone. Dashiel had already cycled through three replacements, and while none of them were incompetent, none of them met his standards.
When they arrived at the office, Dashiel didn't even stop by his private suite. He went straight to the conference room.
The rest of the day dissolved into paperwork, meetings, and an endless stream of fires to put out. Instead of going home, he stayed in the small apartment built into his office — a bedroom with an oversized bed and a bathroom, plus a modest sitting area. He was so exhausted that after showering, he skipped dinner entirely, collapsed onto the mattress, and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.
The rest of the week was more of the same. The entire company was buried under an avalanche of work. By six o'clock on Friday evening, most employees had finished their shifts and gone home.
At the building's entrance, a striking woman with blonde hair and blue eyes walked through the lobby with the confidence of someone who owned the place. Every person she passed greeted her with respect — they all knew exactly who she was.
Dashiel Nilsson's younger sister, Cristina Nilsson.
Her blue eyes swept the reception area like a hawk scanning for prey, locking onto Dashiel's assistant.
The assistant felt a chill run through him the moment he caught her gaze. His boss could be terrifying on occasion, but he didn't sustain that piercing stare the way Cristina seemed to, even among family.
He walked over and greeted her respectfully.
"Good evening, ma'am. How can I help you?" he asked, already knowing the answer. He was certain she'd come for his boss — and that brought a wave of relief. It had been days since Dashiel had pried himself away from his desk. At this rate, the man was going to collapse.
"Good evening. I'm here to see my brother," she said, already striding toward the elevator. The assistant hurried to follow.
"Allow me to escort you, ma'am—"
"That won't be necessary. I know the way." She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for Dashiel's floor. As the doors closed, Cristina checked her watch and ran a hand through her blonde hair with a sigh.
She had called Dashiel roughly forty times and sent about sixty messages over the course of the week. He hadn't deigned to respond to a single one. She didn't doubt he was busy with the company, but she knew that when he went completely silent — not even a cursory reply — his obsession with work had spiraled past the point where someone needed to physically drag him out of the cycle.
The elevator doors opened. Cristina stepped out and headed for Dashiel's office. She knocked once, waited five seconds, and opened the door.
Just as she'd expected, Dashiel was completely absorbed in his work. His desk was buried under papers while he typed away at his computer without pause.
She cleared her throat loudly. He didn't look up.
"Cristina? When did you get here?" Dashiel asked, finally noticing his sister standing in front of his desk.
Cristina couldn't help rolling her eyes. The word work was tattooed on this man's brain, rendering everything else meaningless.
"I'm here to take you to dinner at my house tonight. And I'm not taking no for an answer," she said, fixing him with that piercing stare.
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