Chapter 9
I picked up the photo of my wife and daughter that now sat on the corner of my desk—a photo that had sat behind my monitor at Landmark for a decade, largely ignored while I stared at flight delay monitors.
"No, Marcus," I said gently.
Marcus fell silent. "Emmett... please. Think about your legacy here."
"I built my legacy at Landmark, Marcus," I told him. "Fourteen years of flawless delivery. A twenty-two million dollar book of business that never lost a single dollar of margin. I gave that company my thirties and half of my forties. But you allowed a man who didn't understand the work to tell everyone that the work didn't matter."
"Damian was a mistake," Marcus admitted softly. "The board knows that now."
"Damian wasn't a mistake, Marcus," I said. "Damian was a symptom. He was the natural result of an organization that stopped looking at the people who hold the roof up, and started rewarding the people who paint the ceiling. You can't fix that with a four-hundred-thousand-dollar title."
"Is there anything we can say to change your mind?"
"Nothing," I said. "Tell Arthur I said hello. Tell him I'm grateful for the ten years we had together under his leadership. But my desk is here now."
"I understand," Marcus murmured, his tone defeated. "Good luck, Emmett."
"Good luck to you too, Marcus."
I ended the call, set the phone down on the desk, and turned it completely off.
---
Six months later, the spring sun had finally melted the ice along the Chicago River.
The transformation at Osborne Global had been seamless. Harrington’s transition had completed three weeks ahead of schedule, with zero missed flights, zero lost luggage incidents, and an executive satisfaction rating that exceeded ninety-nine percent.
Jocelyn Fairbanks had flown in from New York for our quarterly review. We sat in a private dining room at an Italian restaurant overlooking the river, sharing a bottle of Barolo and a platter of grilled sea bass.
"You look different, Emmett," Jocelyn said, studying me over the rim of her wine glass.
"Different how?"
"You don't look like you're listening for a phone call while I'm talking," she smiled. "Your eyes aren't darting toward your pocket every forty seconds."
"I have an operations team now," I said, leaning back against the leather banquette. "Twelve dedicated specialists who rotate eight-hour shifts. When a flight gets canceled in Frankfurt at two in the morning, a young woman named Clara handles it before the traveler even steps off the jet bridge. She gets paid night-differential rates, she gets two days off after every three shifts, and she loves the work."