The Widow and The CEO.

Chapter 4. Homesick.

Chapter 4. Homesick.

Raindrops trickled down the window of Devon Boaz’s Upper East Side Penthouse as he looked out of the floor-to-ceiling window across the New York skyline, as the lights twinkled against the reflection of the droplets of water. He let out a long sigh, as he ran his fingers through his short dark brown hair, the rain reminded him of England, his home. As a young man, Devon had dreamed of taking the world by storm. His businesses in the UK had flourished under his command, but with the exuberance of youth, he had not been satisfied, and longed to expand, breaking into America. His success was almost a guarantee, as the Threshing Floor Corporation went from strength to strength. His company, making billions, had made many a mover and shaker on the floors of the stock exchanges, rich men and women. He looked out as the lights twinkled in the city that never sleeps. Devon had increasingly become aware, that in a city filled with millions of people, he had never felt so lonely, and increasingly he had a deep longing to be home, back in the UK, a place that he had once believed was too small to contain him.

Devon did not know if his lackluster was because of his increasing age. At 39 years old, he was not the young man he once was. Or if his melancholy was due to the fact he felt there were no longer challenges here in the USA, to keep his wanderlust at bay.

He had cracked the U.S. market, his face had been on the front cover of not only the New York Times but also Forbes and, of course, GQ. He was listed in the top ten of the world’s richest men and was voted the top influencer in business, for three years running. He had more money than he could ever wish for. Hell, the interest alone gave him millions per week to play with. Yet despite that, Devon felt something was missing in his life. It was true what they said, you could be lonely in a crowded room. Only Devon was lonely in the crowded New York City. Sure, he had business acquaintances, and once upon a time, had a string of women at his fingertips. He was a handsome man, tall, with dark chocolate-coloured hair, and piercing blue eyes that felt like they bore deep into your soul. He was also keeping himself relatively fit, and he had that air of confidence that had many a woman throwing themselves at his feet.

But those encounters were fleeting and left him feeling empty. Most of the women he had dated were little more than gold diggers, looking to him to fund their expensive lifestyle, and took great pleasure at being on the arm of the handsome and most eligible bachelor in the United States of America. They wanted what he was, and what he could give them, not who he was, and that did not sit well with him. It had been a good few years since he had given up on dating. Who needed it when he had been so focused on his success? He had bigger fish to fry, and to have a woman on his arm, just for social appearance, was not his cup of tea.

Devon took a sip of his long glass of freshly squeezed orange juice as he continued to look out at the twinkling lights of the city, through the rain-soaked window. He had inherited his first small business, a wheat-producing company that his grandfather had left him when he had passed. At just nineteen years old, many had questioned the last will and testament of the old man, but his grandfather was as astute as he had been cunning.

Alcoholism had run in his family. His father, and succumbed to the demon drink, just as his uncle, and Devon made it a point to never let a drop pass his lips, for fear he had inherited that destructive trait. Not that he ever knew either his father, or his uncle. His mother had left, late one night, after his father had returned, drunk, and aggressive, throwing items around the house, demanding money that she did not have, to purchase more of his one true love. Alcohol. That night, one of the objects he had used as a projectile, throwing it across the room, towards his mother had landed in the crib where he lay, narrowly missing his sleeping head, when he was only a few weeks old. She had left the next morning and never returned. He did not even know the grandfather who had given him his first company, yet he was the sole inheritor of his will. It was Devon’s drive and ambition that had made the company, which turned a small profit and made it a multi-million-pound enterprise. That was his start, and he expanded.

However, he was not content, his entrepreneurial spirit was not to be tamed as a young man, and soon he added a range of new companies to his business portfolio that went from wheat making, all the way up to land acclamation, and more recently, company acquisition, where he would take large businesses on the verge of bankruptcy and either turn them around, or break them up into smaller companies, and selling them on at a huge profit, making his investors and himself very wealthy.

Devon took another sip of his orange juice, and let out a lamented sigh, as he looked at the alarm clock. It was 4 am, and he had yet to close an eye, and he doubted sleep would find him that night. Grabbing his sweatpants out of his closet, Devon pulled them on and headed to his home gym, where he would run miles on the treadmill, before lifting weights, in a bid to halt time, the realization that 40 would soon be upon him.

By 6 am, Devon sat behind his desk in the large plush New York office, burying himself in work. Once he had thrived on the stress of running his billion-dollar corporation, but now he found little enjoyment in it. He had men and women he could trust to run the American side of his business enterprise; they were the closest thing he had to friends. He paid them well for their loyalty, and in return they worked from dusk till dawn, making his dreams a reality. Maybe it was time for a new start, a new challenge.

“Mr. Boaz, I have Signor Coats on the line,” his PA informed him.

Devon sighed, the CEO of Bushman’s group back in the UK had been struggling for years. Devon was bartering a deal with the man, to purchase the group. He would split the group up, and sell the companies at a profit. He had no intention of keeping the chain of stores that donned the highstreets of many a UK city. However, there were smaller enterprises that had caught his eye that were part of the Bushman Group portfolio. Looking at the time, Devon sighed, it was clear Signor was getting increasingly desperate. That would normally excite him, having the CEO desperate to sell their failing businesses, meant they would be more than happy to accept a low-ball offer, increasing Devon’s profits.

“Put him through, please Demi,” Devon sighed.

“Boaz, I was hoping to catch you. I was wondering if you have had time to look through the companies yet?” Signor stated, with the gravel of old age, hardly able to keep the desperation from his tone.

Devon could not help but wonder if that was one of the reasons this company was failing so badly. The man could not hide his emotions when, really, he should have been playing hardball with Devon. Signor Coats was desperately begging him to take the group off his hands, thus, ensuring that the offer would be lower than he would have originally paid for it. That, and Signor’s inability to realise that the business world was done via computers, and some of his ways of working belonged in a museum. Part of the high street stores in the group were hemorrhaging money. Yes, you still had shops for walk-in customers, but the way forward was the internet, and the older man had point-blank refused to enter the digital age, the final nail in the coffin for his company.

“I am going through your file later today. I will have my answer for you tomorrow,” Devon stated.

He was not trying to make the man sweat, but he had told him on more than one occasion that the decision would be made by tomorrow, yet still, he pushed.

“Oh, I thought you might have taken a look after our last conversation,” Signor sighed in disappointment. He was eager and was no longer afraid to show it.

“No, I gave you the timeline, and as promised, I will have my decision, and if we are willing to make you an offer, by close of business, my time, tomorrow,” Devon kept his tone neutral, not showing the slight annoyance he felt towards this man. He was more bothered by his inability to keep his cards close to his chest than any business decision Signor had made.

“Oh, okay, well, I will await your decision,” Signor sighed, before hanging up on the call.

Devon pulled the file and looked through it. Devon had a range of buyers for the high street shops that would love to get their hands on them, integrating them into their own successful operations. He would probably double his money on that deal alone. However, what caught Devon’s eye, was a small bread-making factory, which sold a range of high-end breads, everything from seeded loaves to herb-filled ciabattas. The profit margins of this company in Signor’s portfolio were nonexistent. However, Devon felt his heart pound in his chest, with a tinge of excitement he had felt lacking in recent times. He knew, that with wheat from his own company, he could turn the business that was failing, and make a profit within the first year. He had connections and was sure he could broker a good deal with delicatessens and supermarkets. This company could make someone a healthy profit. Maybe it was because of his nostalgic thoughts about his first company this morning, which had the cogs in his brain turning, but for the first time, in what felt like a lifetime, Devon Boaz was excited at the prospect of taking over the company, working it personally, and turning it into a world leader in the delicatessen bread marketplace. He turned his leather-bound executive chair toward the New York skyline, and once again, found himself dreaming of the leafy green suburbs of home.

Maybe it was time to go back to the UK, and take this small gem of a company and turn it around by his own hand.

As the hours wore on, the excitement Devon felt regarding the small company that would once again challenge him, increased. The thoughts of returning to England brought happiness to his soul, that had long been missing.

He put together the costings, and made his decision, then, placed the call to Signor, a full day prior than he had promised.

“Signor, I just wanted to speak with you personally. I am going to make you an offer,” Devon smiled. He knew the man would take it, and he knew he would make more than double what he paid. But that was not what brought the upturn to his lips. It was the thought of going home and turning ‘Bushman’s Posh bread’ into a million-pound company.