Trillion(4)

Her full lips press and she offers a slight nod. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m not vegan by the way,” I add.

Her nose wrinkles. “I’m sorry?”

“You told them I was vegan. But you should know, I’m very much a carnivore.” I give her a nuanced wink and earn a reserved smile from her pretty mouth in return.

With that, I’m gone.

I don’t stick around—I don’t have the time. I’m officially running late for a meeting with the board of Ames Oil and Steel, one in which I’m attempting to make a record-shattering, unheard-of offer. Not that I need it. As the richest man in the world, I don’t need much of anything, personally, professionally, or otherwise. Acquiring businesses has become more of a sport in recent years. I’d compare it to climbing mountains. You start with the smaller ones and work your way up to the tallest.

Ames Oil and Steel is about to become the Mount Everest of my career.

I head to the elevator, press the button for my private floor, and swipe my key before heading to the private boardroom.

The second I stride through the door, Broderick greets me, throwing his hands in the air and mouthing something along the lines of, “What the hell?”

The projector screen behind him is filled with a bevy of middle-aged faces with impatient frowns, all of them video-conferencing from a stuffy-looking room in Philadelphia.

“Ladies, gentlemen, esteemed members of the board, I hope you weren’t waiting long.” I smile. I’m told I look halfway pleasant when I smile. When I’m not, I’ve been told I’m akin to an expressionless marble statue and people tend to grow uncomfortable when they think they can’t ‘read’ you.

I take a seat at the head of my forty-foot mahogany table. Broderick slides me a legal pad emblazoned with the Westcott Corporation logo, along with a pristine Caran d’Ache fountain pen—only the best for my note taking. It was my father’s favorite brand. I’d hardly call myself sentimental or superstitious, but some things are worth an exception.

“Mr. Westcott, we assume you received the agenda for today’s meeting?” Someone from their team breaks the east coast silence.

Broderick slides me a printed email.

“Have it right here.” I give it a quick perusal, speed-reading the bullet points and identifying the words that matter. “And I can already tell you that half of these items are unnecessary. I know your time is valuable. As is mine. So I propose we both stop wasting it, and you tell me the number you want on the check. I can have my CFO authorize it before close of business today.”

I’m met with a few chuffs, and a handful of them exchange unreadable stares.

Unprofessional, but I’m willing to turn the other cheek because once I buy them out, I’ll never have to see their sour faces again.

“Mr. Westcott, as we all know, you’re well aware of the legacy clause in our contract,” Nolan Ames, the man at the head of the table with a 51% stake of his family’s company, folds his hands.

“I’m well aware. Yes. Thank you.” I bite my tongue and hope he doesn’t pick up on the condescension in my tone. This absurd legacy clause is the only thing holding up the takeover and so far neither of us have been willing to budge. It’s difficult to see eye-to-eye when your opposition is an incredulous asshole on a power trip. “But from one businessman to another, I’d like to remind you that everything is negotiable.”

He leans forward in his oversized leather chair, head tilted, polite smile painting his aging face, and he clears his throat. “My great-grandfather founded this company.”

I nod, as if I’d never heard the name Ames along the likes of Astors, Rockefellers, and Rothschilds. I listen, silent as if I’ve no idea what it’s like to run a company founded by generations of familial predecessors.

“At the end of the day, it’s a family business,” Nolan says. “It can’t switch hands unless I know for certain it’ll continue to stay a family business.”

The idea of an environment-demolishing corporation being a “family business” is laughable at best. But this man is the kind of delusional with whom one can’t argue.

I shoot Broderick a look. He pinches the bridge of his nose. We both know this is bullshit. Likely a stall tactic. If Nolan really wanted to sell, he’d sell. We’ve had enough off-the-record conversations with board members to know they’re ready to unload. Steel is holding steady but oil is at a twenty-year low. They can’t compete with the Saudis in this market. They’re ready to take their money to greener pastures and they’d have done it eight months ago when I initially offered, but I’m not interested in 49%.

I’m an all-or-nothing man.

“I’m willing to double my last offer,” I say, “which, we can all agree, was remarkably generous.”

One could even argue it was stupid generous.

Nolan peers at his folded hands. Still. Soundless. Either the conference call has glitched and they’re frozen, or he’s counting dollar signs. A second later, he finally moves, twisting the glinting platinum and diamond wedding band on his left ring finger, sliding it off then on again.

“Mr. Westcott, do you mind if we place you on mute for a moment?” A woman in oversized pearls and a charcoal suit stands.

“Not at all,” I say.