It had been a bad look. I’d kept my job. Dad had traveled the world, suffering dog and pony shows to keep King Oil in good standing with our investors, suppliers, and purchasers. I’d doubled down—tripled down—on my work. I’d been a perfectionist before, but to avoid becoming a micromanager, I micromanaged myself.

“Regardless,” I said tightly. “If that’s one of the benefits, then I need to earn it.”

Dad pinched the bridge of his nose. “Aiden. You don’t have to work yourself into the ground. Trust our team to find someone who can do a good job.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not what Grams wants and I don’t know if challenging her right now is the best.”

“What do you mean?” Kendall asked, confusion marring her features.

“She’s not well.”

Kendall frowned. “She seems fine.”

“She’s not fine. When she was coming up the stairs, it looked like a stiff wind could knock her over.”

“We can’t tiptoe around this because of her health,” Dad said. “If she can’t head up the board, then she shouldn’t be in the position.”

“That’s harsh.”

“It’s business and if she insists on being in it, then she should be able to do the job.” He spread his hands like he was seeking our understanding. “The thing is, we can talk to her about our concerns about her health and how we’re worried she can’t handle the position and she’ll dig her heels in harder to prove us wrong, and it’ll be to the detriment of the company. You’ve heard all the reasons why she and DB changed the company name to my last name. It needed rebranding to distance it from her and DB.”

I hated that he was right. Why couldn’t this be easy? “I’m not against asking for more positions, but I should be able to say whether or not I need a VP.”

“At least an assistant?” Kendall’s tone bordered on pleading. “Surely you have minor tasks that you would be willing to trust someone with.”

Kate’s gaze burned into me. She’d soaked up this conversation and was processing it but hadn’t said anything. What did she think?

Grams would see the gap in equitable positions and assume I was in agreement with her. Worse, she’d try to support me. The reaction Dad was afraid of would happen regardless. But they were determined, and in the end, I’d been ordered by my boss. “I’ll get you the information.”

Dad’s dark gaze ripped through my placating promise. His jaw worked. Was he going to call me on it? Were we going to burn more of Christmas and argue about the subject and then grow awkwardly silent when Grams returned?