The Shirt You Hate
Louis strokes his jaw with a look in his eye that he would prefer to be described as 'a sultry smoulder'. His fingers scratch through a healthy layer of scruffy beard, the matching stash above his lip something he has kept neatly trimmed for the last year. He is nearly thirty now, so not shaving should be more than permitted. Encouraged, even.
He squints down at the file of papers his associate dropped off on his desk half an hour ago. The numbers on the pages are not startling, and neither are they surprising. They've been almost this high for the last four years, but when the board of the company he owns (well, to seventy-five per cent, the remaining twenty by the board, and five by different shareholders) and is simultaneously CEO of, five years ago suggested that they would plausibly be making a profit of over a couple billion American dollars the year of 2016, he never actually considered how much money that is, and how much of that money is actually put in his own pocket.
Closing the file, he swings around in his leather office chair, facing the large screen of his computer. After a few clicks and a couple of insertions of different passwords he finds himself staring at his own personal bank accounts.
Louis has always been especially pleased with the large accounting department of his company — their excellence is always pleasing — but his own spending looks a bit, well. He is far from cheap, but he could definitely be making use of a lot more than he currently is.
Financial stability is excellent; he doesn't have to worry about places to live, his pension scheme doesn't need much altering, and the members of his family's futures are basically ensured. His sisters and one brother don't need to take out student loans, they get to travel, and his mum never needs to carry a drop of worry on her shoulders. Despite the multiple charities he invests in, he could, however, be spending a bit more than he is when he is, well, about 413 million American dollars away from being a billionaire. Personal savings included only.
There is a set of six black cards that lead to one of his accounts distributed to his family, that they all use admirably responsibly — he even tells his twenty-three year old sister to have some fun with it sometimes — but, as he ponders it now as an official half a billionaire about to turn thirty, there could be one more person.
He logs out of his financial accounts, clicks the button on the speaker, and leans back to gaze out through the glass walls of his office. He watches as his executive assistant spins around in her chair at her station outside his office, her long brown hair swaying in ironed curls as she picks up the phone.
"Soph," Louis says to his female executive assistant. "I am making more money than ever, and I have just realised I have no one to spend it on."
"Um," Sophia Smith says, arching an impeccable brow. "There is me? I enjoy expensive Prada's, Michael Kors, and YSL has a new —"
"Just write me a list, Soph." Louis rolls his eyes. "But. I need a boyfriend. Quick."
"I'll make you a list of that, too."
"Excellent." Louis nods, pursing his lips. "I'll be in my office until two —"
"Actually, you have a meeting with the board at two-fifteen, and Mrs. Anderson requested a meeting. I scheduled her in at three, in room six on floor twenty-seven. I'll send over the adjustments of the agenda."
Louis crosses his legs. "I will be in my office until twelve-forty before I will leave for lunch in the city. I want the list on my desk by the time I am back from the board meeting."
"No problem, Lou."
"And," he says, rolling his eyes once again already, "if Horan comes over to flirt with you, please send him on his merry way before I have to look at his futile attempts through these glass walls one more time."
