Chapter 15

RESPECT AND ACCESS

Don called from New York.

"I need you to set up a meeting for me," he said. "I'll be in LA next week."

He gave me a name. A company president. I hesitated.

He heard it.

"Tell him you're calling on behalf of Donald Spector." I paused. "That's it?"

"That's it. If they don't know who I am, add this: 'He is the largest living patent holder in the world.'"

I wrote it down word for word. "Okay," I said.

We hung up.

I sat at the desk in my apartment. Stared at the phone. Looked at what I'd written.

I'm calling on behalf of Donald Spector. I picked up the phone. Dialed.

A receptionist answered.

"Hi, I'm calling on behalf of Donald Spector," I said. "I'd like to schedule a meeting."

"One moment please."

The line went quiet. Hold music. Then a voice. Friendly. Warm.

The president. He'd picked up.

"I—yes, hi. I'm calling on behalf of Donald Spector. He'll be in LA next week and would like to meet with you."

"Of course. When works for him?"

I gave him the date. He agreed immediately. We hung up.

I sat there. It worked.

After that, I made the calls.

Say Don's name. Get put through. Meeting scheduled. Doors opened.

People started approaching me differently.

Don and I met Jitsuro Terashima in the lobby of the New Otani Hotel & Garden.

Terashima was Chairman of Mitsui & Co., the largest trading company in the world. He and Don had known each other for over fifteen years.

Terashima was waiting when we arrived. Strong build, sturdy frame. Dark hair combed neatly to one side with subtle hints of gray. Deep-set eyes. Dark pinstriped suit, crisp white shirt, conserva-tive tie. The kind of man who commanded respect through quiet strength.

He stood when he saw Don.

"Donald," he said. His voice was warm.

They shook hands. Easy. Familiar. Years of history in a single gesture.

Then Terashima turned to me.

"It is a pleasure to meet you," he said.

He extended his hand. Firm handshake. Steady gaze. "The pleasure is mine," I said.

We sat. Talked briefly.

Terashima always spoke in hushed tones. It made everything seem very private. Like whatever was said stayed in the room.

Then I stood.

"It was a pleasure to see you again," I said. I nodded my head slightly.

And left.

After the meeting, I waited in the lobby. Don came down twenty minutes later.

We walked to the car.

"His office always responds immediately," Don said. "Anything you need, call them. They'll take care of it."

I nodded.

The respect Don had earned with Terashima had been extended to me. Not because of who I was. It was because of who I worked for.

Without Don, those doors stayed closed.

Terashima was genuine. His courtesy was real, not transactional. But not everyone was like that.

Don was in LA for a few days.

We were in the car between meetings when he brought it up. "You remember Roger Mercer?" he asked.

"Yes."

"He's a nice guy. Maybe the two of you should go on a date." I looked at him. "He's not my type."

Don shrugged. "Just a thought."

A few weeks later, Rodger was in LA.

We went to dinner. Business dinner. Or that's what I thought it was.

We talked about projects. The industry. Work. Then the conversation shifted.

He asked about my day. I told him. Stores I'd visited. Meetings I'd had. Problems I was solving. Corporate plans. Things I thought were just conversation.

The dinner turned into something else. Drinks. More conversation.

We started dating. I didn't tell Don.

A year later, Don called.

"You know Rodger shared what you told him, "He said. I stopped. "What?"

"Corporate information. Things you said. He used it profes-sionally."

My face went hot. "I didn't realize—"

"I know," Don said. "Just be careful." There was a pause.

"There are some questions regarding Ric that came up," he said. "Forget what I said about dating him."

"Okay," I said. We hung up.

I sat there.

I should have told Don I was dating him. I should have stopped.

I didn't.

Six months later, we stopped working with Ric professionally.

The relationship faded after that. Our schedules had always made it difficult—voicemails back and forth, messages left, calls missed.

I left him a message.

He called back. Left a message. I didn't call back.

That was it.

Don found out I'd been dating him. He called.

"You were seeing Rodger," he said. Not a question.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?" "I—"

"I don't care about the relationship," Don said. His voice was tight. "I care that you weren't honest with me."

I didn't say anything.

"I need to be able to trust you," he said. "If I can't trust you, we have a problem."

"I understand." We hung up.

I sat there.

He wasn't angry that I'd dated Rodger. He was angry that I'd lied.

The pattern increased.

The longer I stayed in LA, the more involved I became in Don's other businesses—licensing deals, international partnerships, new ventures—the more people wanted something.

Someone would approach me at a meeting. At a restaurant. At an event.

They'd be friendly. Warm. Ask about my work. Then the conversation would shift.

"So, what's Don like?" "When is he in town?"

"I have a great idea I want to share with Don." Every time, I smiled. Stayed friendly.

"I'll get back to you," I said.

And I would. I'd pass the message along. Let Don decide. But sometimes I misjudged.

I'd think someone was genuine when they weren't. Or I'd share something I thought was harmless when it wasn't.

The New York office would call.

"Why did you tell [name] about [project]?" "I didn't think—"

"Don't."

The corrections kept coming.

By the second year, I could spot most of it.

The smile that didn't reach the eyes. The conversation that circled back to Don no matter where it started. The casual questions that weren't casual at all.

As more people knew that I worked for Don, the more the

requests happened at social events. At restaurants. Places where I wasn't on the clock but was always visible.

I was at a party in Beverly Hills. Someone's house. Big. Expen-sive. The kind of place where the art on the walls costs more than most people's houses.

A group of us stood in a circle near the bar. Talking. Laughing. Non-business conversation. Someone's vacation. A restaurant someone had tried. Normal.

Then I noticed him.

Head of a tech company. I'd seen his name in the trades. He was hovering near the edge of our circle. Not quite in, not quite out. He worked his way in. Smiled. Nodded at the right moments.

Laughed at the jokes.

Then he switched positions with the guy standing next to me.

The music was loud. Bass thumping through the floor. You had to lean in to be heard.

He leaned in.

"I'd love to meet with Don," he said. I looked at him.

"I'm an inventor too," he said. "I have an idea I think he'd be really interested in."

"You have an idea," I said. "Yes."

"Is it patented?"

He hesitated. "Not yet. But—"

"Once you have a patent on it, feel free to call me." I smiled. Polite. Friendly.

"But if I could just get ten minutes with him," he said. "Just to explain the concept—"

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that he's in so many different fields and has so many patents—I really can't even look at anything unless it's patented. I'm sure you understand."

His face changed. The smile stayed but something shifted behind his eyes.

"Sure," he said. "I understand."

He straightened. Looked around the circle. Made an excuse about seeing someone across the room.

And left.

The guy who'd been standing next to me earlier moved back into the spot.

"What was that about?" he asked. "Nothing," I said.

It happened like that. Again and again.

Hundreds of people over the years. All wanting access.

Some were polite. Some were pushy. Some pretended to be interested in me when all they wanted was a route to Don.

I kept a notepad. Wrote down names. Who wanted what. When they'd asked.

I documented the requests. Passed them to Don. Let him decide.

I stopped sharing corporate plans over dinner. Stopped assuming conversations were private.

I answered the phone calls. Took the meetings. Smiled at the right moments.

But I kept parts of myself back.

I used Don's name when it opened rooms.

But I stopped pretending everyone who smiled at me was a friend.

#### BOUNDARY LUNCH

I met Aaron Levy at a business lunch in LA.

He was early thirties. Sharp. Articulate. The kind of guy who moved through rooms like he already knew everyone in them. Dark hair brushed back, open-neck shirt under a blazer, the hybrid look of someone who was both creative and corporate.

He talked fast. Energetic. Three moves ahead in every conversation.

We were discussing an entertainment partnership. Something involving one of Don's products. The details blurred together—licensing, branding, distribution—but the energy was clear. Aaron wanted in.

He leaned forward when he talked. Intense. Eyes that didn't blink much. Very demonstrative—hands cutting through the air, touching my arm for emphasis, pulling his chair closer. Like he wanted all of my attention and wouldn't settle for anything less.

"This could be huge," he said. "I've got the reach. You've got the product. We move fast, we own this space."

I nodded. Took notes. Asked questions.

He answered fast. Confident. Already talking about the next three deals while we were still in the first one.

When the waiter brought the check, Aaron reached for it. "I got this," he said.

I let him.

The Call

A week later, Don called from New York. "I met with Aaron," he said.

I stopped. "What?"

"He came to see me. In New York." My face went hot.

"I didn't know—" "I know you didn't."

I was defensive. "Did I do something wrong?" "No."

"Then why—"

"He went around you," Don said. His voice was even. "Some people do that. It's not about you. It's about them."

I didn't say anything.

"Listen," Don said. "You're going to have to work with him. You don't have to like him. But you need to handle it."

"How?"

"Take him to lunch. A nice place. One you've been wanting to try. If you have to sit across from someone you don't want to meet with, at least enjoy the meal."

I paused. "That's it?"

"That's it. Make peace. Set the terms. Move on." We hung up.

The Ivy

I chose The Ivy because I'd never been and because I'd heard it was the place.

White picket fence outside. Bougainvillea spilling over flower boxes. Inside, the tables were too close together—you could hear everyone's deals. The air smelled like roses and grilled fish and cilantro. Hand-painted china. Floral tablecloths. Sun pouring through the windows.

I wore a Thierry Mugler dress. Black. Structured. The kind of thing that said I was taking this seriously.

Aaron was already there when I arrived. Same blazer. Same energy. He stood when I walked in.

"Lisa," he said. Smiled. "Aaron."

We sat.

The waiter came. I ordered the chopped salad. Aaron ordered something I didn't catch.

We talked business for a while. Deliverables. Timelines. Clauses. The salad arrived. Fresh. Bright with lemon. I took a bite.

Then I put my fork down.

"Did you try to go around me?" I asked. I was surprised it came out of my mouth.

He looked up. No embarrassment. No pretense. He smirked.

"Of course I did, kid." I stared at him.

He didn't look away. Didn't apologize. Didn't explain.

Just sat there. Assured. Comfortable. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I straightened my posture.

So that's who you are, I thought.

I picked up my fork. Took another bite.

We finished the meal. Talked through the rest of the deal points.

Set the terms.

When we left, nothing had changed except that I knew.

Now I Know

I called Don when I got back to the apartment. "How'd it go?" he asked.

"Well," I said. "The salad was great." Don laughed. "Good. Now you know." "Yeah. Now I know."

Grey Areas

After that, I kept a notepad.

Wrote down names. Who tried what. When they tried it.

When someone leaned toward a shortcut—whether they were reaching for me or reaching past someone on my team—I docu-mented it. Passed it to Don when it mattered.

I stopped assuming everyone played straight.

But I also had to learn how not to think in black and white.

Aaron went around me. That was true. But the deal still got done. The work still moved forward. He wasn't 100 percent bad. He was just... Aaron.

Don had said it once: "Things are not black and white. People are not 100 percent bad and 100 percent good. They are a mix. The world is grey. You have to learn how to live in the grey area."

I was learning.

The next time someone tried to go around me, I handled it myself. Took them to lunch. Set the terms. Kept working.

I didn't cut them out. I adjusted. Think grey.

And when I had to sit across from someone I didn't want to meet with, I picked a good restaurant.

At least I enjoyed the meal.

I clicked my pen. Wrote the name down. Closed the notepad.

#### ATTEMPTS AT PURCHASE

People tried to go around me. That was one thing.

But some people tried to buy me. That was different.

The first time it happened, I thought I'd misunderstood. That someone would actually offer money or stock—expecting me to trade access to Don for a quick gain—seemed impossible.

It wasn't.

The first time, we'd just finished dinner.

A distributor. We'd been talking about a deal. Product place-ment. Timelines. Nothing unusual.

The restaurant was dim. Warm. The kind of place where deals got made over wine and cloth napkins.

We stood up. He walked me toward the door.

"I really appreciate your hard work," he said. "I can see why Don hired you."

I smiled. "Thank you."

He stopped. Touched my arm. Leaned in.

"I'd like to give you 50,000 shares in my new company. As a thank you."

I stared at him.

My face didn't change. But inside, something stopped. Shares?

For what?

"Oh—gosh, no," I said. My voice stayed warm. "I'm happy to help. I want to see this project move forward."

I smiled. Turned the conversation back to the deal. When we'd ship. When they'd receive.

He nodded. We kept walking. That was it.

The second time, a different guy. Different deal.

Dinner. Then walking to my car in the parking lot. The air was cool. The lot was half empty. Streetlights buzzing overhead.

Same setup. "You've been really helpful. Don's lucky to have you."

"Thank you."

He glanced around. Made sure no one was nearby. Reached into his jacket. Pulled out an envelope. Held it toward me.

"This is for you." I looked at it.

Cash.

I didn't take it.

"Oh, please…," I said. "I'm happy to help. I want to see this project move forward."

I said it the same way. Warm. Clear. Not offended. Not dramatic. Just no.

He put the envelope back in his jacket. Smiled like nothing had happened.

We kept walking.

After that, it kept happening.

Not every deal. Not every person. But enough.

A week later, someone offered me a trip to Hawaii. "Come see the facility. Bring a friend. We'll cover everything."

"Oh—gosh, no. I'm happy to help." Europe. Same thing.

Same words. Same tone. I told Don about it once.

"Someone offered me stock today," I said. "What did you say?"

"No."

Don nodded. "Good." That was it.

He didn't seem surprised. Didn't ask who. Didn't make a big deal of it.

Just: Good.

So, I kept handling it the same way. I was never offered anything twice. Once I said no, they didn't ask again.

I didn't make lists. I didn't report every offer. I just kept saying no.

Warm. Clear. Simple.

And eventually, people learned. I wouldn't be bought.

I kept my notepad. Wrote down names when it mattered. Passed them to Don if the situation required it.

But mostly, I just kept working. The offers stopped.

#### VEGAS

Don called from New York.

"I need you to come to Vegas with me," he said. "I have a meeting."

"When?" "Next week."

We flew from LA.

The Strip

I'd never been to Vegas before.

The cab from the airport crawled down the Strip. Casinos stacked one after another. The Mirage. Treasure Island. Caesars Palace. Neon everywhere. People everywhere. The air smelled like exhaust and sugar.

We pulled up to the Mirage.

I walked through the doors and stopped. It wasn't a lobby. It was a jungle.

A giant glass dome overhead. Sunlight pouring through. Palm trees. Ferns. Orchids. The air was humid. Mist drifted from hidden sprayers. I could hear water running—little streams, waterfalls tucked into rocks.

It smelled warm. Floral. Like stepping off a plane in Hawaii.

Later, in my room, I pressed my forehead against the glass and whispered, "Wow."

The Strip stretched out below. Fountains arcing. A volcano coughing orange light. Neon stitching the whole thing together like a glittering seam.

The phone rang. Don.

"I'm headed to the casino," he said. "We have time before the meeting. Cell phones aren't allowed at the tables, so I'll be off the grid for a bit."

"Okay," I said. There was a pause.

"Can I come watch?" I asked.

"Only if you don't talk or ask questions."

"Fine with me."

The Tables

The casino floor was loud. Slot machines. Canned trumpets.

The sweet chemical smell of cocktails.

We walked past rows of people in single gloves, pulling levers like automatons.

"Why the gloves?" I asked.

Don shrugged. "So their hands don't get dirty." We kept walking.

The high-limit area was quieter. Smaller tables. Green felt.

Dealers in precise, economical motion.

Don sat down.

The chips were stacked like little towers. Ivory hundreds.

Burgundy five-hundreds.

I stood behind him. Watched.

He was dealt two eights. The dealer showed a six. Don split them.

I stared at the chips on the table.

That's more money than my salary, I thought. One hand.

Then he split them again. My stomach dropped. "You okay?" Don asked. "I might throw up."

He chuckled. Slid a chip toward me. He won.

Treasure Island

After, we walked through a long carpeted hallway. Quiet. No casino noise.

The boardroom at Treasure Island was different.

The second I stepped inside, the air changed. No slots. No laughter. No pirate soundtrack. Just quiet.

The table stretched across the room. Long. Gleaming. Boat-shaped hardwood with a lighter center panel. The kind of surface you hesitated to touch.

High-backed black leather chairs lined the table. Seating for thirty. More chairs along the walls for observers.

The room smelled like polished wood and brewed coffee. The good kind. Navy-and-gold carpet. Brass sconces casting amber light.

On the table: small pads embossed with the TI logo. Gold-trim pens. Water goblets perfectly aligned.

It didn't feel like Treasure Island. It felt like a different world.

One hidden behind the pirate show. Reserved for deals.

Roy Speer

Roy Speer was already there.

Member's Only jacket. Jeans. Broad face. Neatly combed silver hair. A smile that made his power feel sudden and absolute.

A billionaire in a Member's Only jacket. I loved it.

Don introduced me. How I'd opened the West Coast office.

How I found ways to get things done.

Roy laughed—that bulldog, southern way. "Where are you from?" he asked.

"Half Irish, half Filipino," I said. Roy turned to Don. Serious.

"I did not know she was half little people."

I looked at Don. He didn't react. Acted normal. I felt… amused. The whole thing was surreal.

I did the same. Kept my face neutral.

The Meeting

The meeting started.

Roy wanted to discuss new business ventures with Don. Roy wanted something from Don—he had all the ideas. Don listened, asked questions, nodded at the right moments. The conversation moved through possibilities, partnerships, ways they could work together.

Hours passed. Drinks loosened tongues.

The men traded crude jokes. Insults. I laughed with them because it was funny.

Then someone pushed a bet.

"I bet I can insult Lisa with one word."

Another man put down a hundred.

On impulse, I tossed in the only hundred I had in my purse. A few others matched.

The guy smiled. "McGook."

It landed in the room like a dropped coin. I laughed. Surprised at how cleanly it fit. "I can't even be mad about that," I said. The room erupted.

The guy swept up the cash.

I didn't notice I was the only woman in the room until later, when I checked my notes and saw who had been in attendance.

I still think that's one of the best one-word insults ever.

Maybe it was because I was an ex-jock. Slinging insults came naturally. To a teammate. To a competitor.

The line landed more as a badge than a blow. A private measurement of who could take a hit and keep laughing.

The Flight Home

We left Vegas the next morning.

On the plane, I pulled out my notepad. Wrote down names.

Who said what. What mattered.

Don looked over.

"Learn anything?" he asked.

I thought about Roy in his Member's Only jacket. The chips stacked like towers. The boardroom hidden behind the pirate show.

"Yeah," I said.

He nodded. Went back to his papers.

WHERE'S THE LOVE

An LA fund asked Don for advice on a project they were considering.

"We have a meeting with Spike Lee and a manufacturer," the fund's representative said. "Can you join us? We'd appreciate your expertise."

Don said yes. It was a favor.

We filed into a boardroom at Treasure Island. The carpet muffled footsteps. The air smelled like stale perfume and hotel coffee. Fluorescent lights. A long table with water bottles and presentation boards.

The room was loud from the start. Voices overlapping. Suits leaning forward. Laughter too loud. Everyone performing enthusiasm.

Everyone except Don and Spike.

Don sat with his usual measured calm. Listening more than speaking. His silence carried weight.

Spike sat with casual authority. Cap tilted. Voice ready. But he didn't join the noise. He waited. He watched. Carpe Diem was a mid-size clothing manufacturer from Arizona. They specialized in screen printing, small-batch production, promotional apparel. T-shirts for concerts, sports teams, boutique brands. They were good at what they did.

But they wanted more. They wanted to go mainstream.

Spike had launched 40 Acres and a Mule—retail stores and a clothing line. Film-inspired gear. Jackets, tees, hats. Including the iconic X Cap.

Carpe Diem wanted to manufacture the line. They wanted the orders. And they thought Don's contacts with department stores could help get Spike's line into Macy's, JCPenney, Bloomingdale's.

The  Carpe  Diem  president  started  the  pitch.  Energetic.

Confident.

"We can get 40 Acres into Bloomingdale's," he said. "We've got the manufacturing capacity. We just need the distribution network."

Spike leaned forward slightly. "Why can't you get it there now?" The president hesitated. "Well, it's… it's a matter of positioning.

Marketing. We think with the right strategy—"

Don spoke. His voice was calm. Direct. "The issue isn't market-ing. It's the fit."

Everyone stopped talking. Spike looked at Don. Waiting.

"Bloomingdale's isn't the right demographic for your brand,"

Don said. "The customers who shop there—they're not your audience."

The room went quiet.

The president shifted in his seat. "Well, we could adjust the—" "And even if you get placement," Don continued, "when it

doesn't sell through, Bloomingdale's does a chargeback."

He looked at Carpe Diem, then back at Spike. "Carpe Diem still gets paid for manufacturing. But you take the hit. Chargebacks. Markdowns. Capital tied up in inventory sitting in a warehouse. And so do the investors."

Don paused. "Beyond that—you need the infrastructure to scale. EDI compliance. Replenishment logistics. Seasonal calendars. Advertising co-op. Are you prepared financially for that level of operation?"

Spike didn't answer right away. His body language didn't change. But something shifted in his eyes. A small smile. A nod.

The Carpe Diem president leaned back in his chair. His voice carried a forced lightness. "Where is the love?" he said. "Where is the love? We gotta have love."

He said it like a joke. But it wasn't funny. He was trying to save his deal.

No one laughed.

The meeting ended shortly after.

I walked out with Don, still unsettled. I didn't fully understand what had just happened. The energy in the room had shifted so fast. "That was strange," I said. "It felt like they only cared about

getting an order in."

Don gave me that quiet look. The one that meant he'd already read the room before anyone else had sat down.

"If you don't know who the mullet is," he said, "then you are."

I paused. "Oh… and you didn't want the fund or Spike to be a mullet either?"

"No."

We kept walking.

"Carpe Diem wanted the manufacturing contract," Don said.

"They get paid either way—whether the product sells or not. But if it doesn't move, Spike takes the loss. And the retailer ends up with dead inventory, which damages the relationship for future deals."

He stopped. Looked at me. "My business is built on making sure the product sells through. Not just getting it placed. If the retailer doesn't look good—if they're stuck processing returns and mark-downs—then no one wins. Not long-term."

I understood then.

"Carpe Diem didn't care about sell-through," I said. "No. They cared about the order."

The mullet line stayed with me. It was shorthand for the kind of awareness you needed in every room: know who's pitching, know who's catching, know who's being played.

If you can't tell, it's probably you.

Don had walked in knowing he wasn't the mullet. And he wasn't going to let the fund or Spike be one either.

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