After my wife’s father, the CEO’s funeral, I didn’t bring up the 61% stake he handed over to me. A week later, my wife’s sisters and brothers announced at the board meeting, “We’ve decided to terminate your position. Pack your things immediately.” I just smiled, thanked them, and left quietly. Monday would be fun.
You know what’s worse than a funeral? A funeral where everyone’s acting like they’re auditioning for an Oscar. And let me tell you, Richard Halden’s sendoff was basically the Academy Awards of fake grief, complete with overpriced tissues and designer morning where that probably cost more than most people’s cars. I’m standing there in the back of St. Matthews Cathedral.
Yeah, the fancy one with the stained glass that looks like it was personally blessed by God’s interior decorator, watching this whole circus unfold. My wife Sarah’s dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief that’s probably worth more than my first apartment security deposit while her siblings are putting on a performance that would make Shakespeare roll over in his grave and ask for royalties.
Marcus, the oldest and self-proclaimed natural leader of the family, is sobbing loud enough that I’m pretty sure they can hear him in the parking lot. This is the same guy who couldn’t remember his father’s birthday 3 months ago and asked me to pick up a gift card from CVS. Now he’s wailing like he just lost his best friend, his mentor, his everything. Give me a break.
The only thing Marcus is mourning is the fact that he can’t ask daddy for another loan to fund his latest get-richqu scheme. Then there’s Cynthia, middle child extraordinaire, who’s gone full dramatic with the black veil and everything. She looks like she raided the costume department of a 1940s film noir.
Every few minutes, she lets out these perfectly timed gasps that coordinate beautifully with the organ music. It’s impressive, really. She’s got the timing of a Broadway veteran. Too bad her acting skills don’t extend to pretending she actually visited her father more than twice a year.
And even then, only when she needed money for her latest wellness retreat, or whatever the hell she calls her expensive vacations these days. George, the baby boy of the family at 32, is standing there looking confused like he’s not entirely sure why everyone’s so upset. He keeps checking his phone every 30 seconds, probably monitoring his fantasy football league or scrolling through Instagram.
This is the same genius who once asked me if his father’s company like actually makes money or is it just for fun. Yeah, George, multi-million dollar corporations are just elaborate hobbies. Sure thing, buddy. And don’t even get me started on the twins, Olivia and Clare. These two are 28 going on 16, and they’re crying in perfect synchronization like some weird grief choreography.
They’ve got their arms around each other, rocking back and forth, putting on a show that would make reality TV producers weep tears of joy. The same twins who spent last Christmas complaining that their grandfather was like totally boring and didn’t understand their lifestyle brand. Now they’re acting like they’ve lost the most important person in their lives.
The whole scene is more fake than a $3 bill. And I’m watching it all unfold while keeping my face as neutral as Switzerland during wartime. Because here’s the thing, nobody knows yet. Richard Halden, the man they’re all pretending to mourn, was about as sharp as they come right up until his last breath.
And he saw right through every single one of his precious children. I remember sitting by his hospital bed just 3 days ago. The man was hooked up to more machines than a NASA launchpad, but his eyes were still clear, still calculating. He looked at me with that expression he always got when he was about to drop some serious wisdom and said, “You know what the difference is between you and them?” I shook my head and he continued, “You actually give a damn about something other than your bank account balance.” That’s when he slipped me the envelope. Not handed it over with fanfare. Not made a big
production out of it. Just slid it under the blanket where nobody else could see. “Don’t open it until after the funeral,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the beeping of the heart monitor. “And don’t let them ruin what I built. You’re the only one with enough brains and backbone to keep it going.
” I wanted to ask him what he meant, but the nurse came in to check his vitals, and by the time she left, he was asleep. 12 hours later, he was gone. And here we are at his funeral watching his kids perform like they’re trying out for America’s Got Talent. The pastor’s droning on about Richard’s legacy of family values and his dedication to his loved ones.
And I’m thinking, yeah, he was dedicated, all right, dedicated to building something that would last longer than his children’s attention spans. The man worked 16-hour days well into his 70s, not because he had to, but because he knew the minute he stepped back, these clowns would run his company into the ground faster than you could say hostile takeover. Sarah squeezes my hand.
And I squeeze back because that’s what you do at funerals. You play the part of the grieving son-in-law. You nod at the right moments. You shake hands with people who offer their condolences. But inside, I’m thinking about that envelope sitting in my jacket pocket, wondering what Richard’s final surprise is going to be. The service drags on for another 45 minutes.
Apparently, when you’re rich enough, they let you have the extended funeral package, and finally, we’re heading to the cemetery for the burial. More tears, more dramatic poses, more acting that would make a soap opera director proud. Marcus gives a speech about how his father was an inspiration to us all, which is rich considering he once told me he thought his dad’s business philosophy was outdated and like totally not sustainable in today’s market economy.
As they lower the casket, I finally understand what Richard meant about not letting them ruin it. These people couldn’t run a lemonade stand without bankrupting it. They’re about as businesssavvy as a goldfish and twice as likely to forget what they’re supposed to be doing from one minute to the next. But here’s the beautiful part.
They have no idea what’s coming. They’re so busy planning their inheritance and figuring out how to divvy up daddy’s empire that they haven’t stopped to consider that maybe, just maybe, the old man was smarter than they gave him credit for. As we head back to the cars, I catch Marcus whispering to Cynthia about finally being able to modernize the company and bringing it into the 21st century. Yeah, good luck with that, Chief.
Something tells me this week is going to be a lot more interesting than any of them bargained for. One week. That’s all it took for the Halden family grief tour to pack up and move from the cemetery to the corporate headquarters. Seven whole days of mourning before they decided it was time to get down to the real business. screwing me over faster than a discount mechanic.
I’m walking into Halden Industries on Monday morning, same as I have for the past 8 years, with my coffee in one hand and Richard’s envelope burning a hole in my jacket pocket. The building looks the same. 43 floors of glass and steel stretching toward heaven like a middle finger to the competition. But there’s something different in the air today.
You know that feeling you get right before a thunderstorm when the pressure drops and every dog in the neighborhood starts acting weird? Yeah, that’s the vibe I’m picking up from the security guard who can’t quite make eye contact and the receptionist who’s suddenly very interested in her computer screen.
I take the elevator up to the 38th floor, executive territory, where the air is thinner and the egos are thicker. The hallways smell like expensive cologne and desperation, which let’s be honest, is pretty much the standard corporate bouquet. But today, there’s an extra note of something else. Anticipation, maybe. Or maybe it’s just the scent of impending disaster.
Hard to tell the difference sometimes. My assistant, Jenny, sweet kid, fresh out of college, still believes in things like company loyalty and fair treatment, practically jumps out of her chair when she sees me. Oh. Um, Mr. Patterson. She stammers, looking like she’s about to deliver news that my dog died. They uh they want to see you in the boardroom right away.
They I ask even though I already know who they are. The family? She whispers like she’s talking about the mafia or some secret government organization. All of them. I nod and hand her my coffee. Hold this. And Jenny, if this goes the way I think it’s going to go, you might want to update your resume.
The boardroom is on the top floor because of course it is. Richard always said you should literally and figuratively stay above the competition. It’s got floor toseeiling windows that offer a view of the entire city like you’re looking down at your kingdom from Mount Olympus.
The table is this massive slab of oak that probably cost more than most people’s houses surrounded by leather chairs that whisper executive privilege every time you sit in them. And there they are, my beloved in-laws, arranged around that table like they’re posing for a Renaissance painting titled The Last Supper of Common Sense.
Marcus is sitting at the head daddy’s chair, looking like he’s finally found his calling as a Fortune 500 CEO. Never mind that his biggest professional achievement before this was managing to not get fired from three different entry-level positions. Cynthy is to his right, wearing what I can only describe as powersuit cosplay.
a black blazer that’s probably supposed to make her look authoritative, but instead makes her look like she’s playing dress up in mom’s closet. She’s got this smug little smile that says she thinks she’s about to watch me get my comeuppants. George is staring out the window, probably wondering if anyone would notice if he just jumped.
The twins are whispering to each other like they’re sharing state secrets, but knowing them, they’re probably discussing which Starbucks drink best matches their aura or some equally earthshattering topic. Sit down, Marcus says, gesturing to the chair directly across from him. Not beside him, not at his right hand, across from him, like we’re about to have a gunfight at high noon. The symbolism is about as subtle as a brick through a window.
I sit because why not? This should be entertaining. Marcus clears his throat like he’s about to deliver the Gettysburg address. The man has always had a flare for the dramatic, which would be more impressive if he had the intelligence to back it up.
We’ve been discussing the future of the company, he begins, using that voice people use when they’re trying to sound important, but mostly sound constipated. Oh, have you? I lean back in my chair, keeping my expression as neutral as possible. That’s nice. Been discussing it for a whole week, huh? Don’t be sarcastic. Cynthia snaps like she’s my elementary school teacher and I just made a joke during math class.
This is serious business. You’re absolutely right. I say business is serious, which is why I’m curious to hear what you’ve decided. Marcus straightens his tie, which is probably the most executive thing he’s done all month. We’ve decided that it’s time for some changes around here.
The company needs fresh leadership, new ideas, a more modern approach. George finally turns away from the window. Yeah, like dad was old school, you know? We need to uh innovate or whatever. Innovate or whatever. Ladies and gentlemen, the future CEO of Halden Industries. Everyone, I’m pretty sure Richard is spinning in his grave so fast he could power a small city.
And where do I fit into this grand vision? I ask, though I already know the answer. Marcus puffs up like a peacock trying to impress a mate. Well, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about. See, we’ve decided that your services are no longer needed. We’re going in a different direction and frankly, you’re not the right fit for where we want to take the company.
The room goes quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and what I’m pretty sure is the sound of brain cells dying. They’re all staring at me, waiting for my reaction. Will I beg? Will I argue? Will I throw myself at their mercy and promise to do better? Okay, I say. That’s it. Just okay.
The disappointment on their faces is almost comical. They were clearly expecting drama. Maybe some tears, possibly some graveling. Instead, I’m sitting here looking like I just agreed to grab lunch sometime. Okay. Cynthia repeats like she can’t believe I’m taking this so well. Okay, I confirm. So, I’m fired. Got it. When do you want me out? Marcus looks confused like this isn’t going according to his script.
Well, we we’d like you to clean out your office today. Immediately. Actually, today it is. I stand up straightening my jacket. Anything else? The twins are staring at me like I’ve just grown a second head. George looks relieved that the whole thing went so smoothly.
Cynthia appears to be having some kind of internal struggle about whether she should be happy or suspicious. That’s it. Marcus asks, “You’re not going to fight this?” I smile. Not a big smile, just a little one. The kind of smile you give when someone tells you a joke that’s not quite funny, but you want to be polite. Fight what? You own the company, right? You can hire and fire whoever you want.
It’s your show now. And that’s when I see it. That moment when Marcus realizes I just handed him exactly what he wanted without any of the satisfaction he was hoping for. He wanted me to gravel to admit that I needed them to prove that they had power over me. Instead, I just agreed. And somehow that makes him look like the instead of the victor.
I head toward the door, then pause and turn back. Oh, one more thing. Good luck with those quarterly projections. and the Morrison account and pretty much everything else. I give them a little wave. This should be fun to watch from the outside.
The elevator ride down feels like the longest 43 floors of my life, but not for the reasons they think. I’m not devastated or panicked or wondering how I’m going to pay my mortgage. No, I’m trying not to laugh out loud because I know something they don’t know yet. Richard’s envelope is still in my pocket, and I have a feeling that when I finally open it, this whole little power play is going to look very different than they think it does.
You want to know how I ended up married into the Halden circus? It wasn’t love at first sight with Sarah. Well, maybe it was, but that’s beside the point. The real story starts with Richard Halden himself. back when I was just another 20-something MBA grad with student loans bigger than my apartment and dreams smaller than my paycheck.
Picture this, me fresh out of Northwestern with a business degree and the kind of naive optimism that makes you think you’re going to change the world before lunch. I’d been grinding through interviews for 3 months, getting rejected by companies I’d never heard of for positions I was overqualified for. My bank account was running on fumes and I was one ramen noodle away from moving back in with my parents in Ohio, which let me tell you would have been a fate worse than death.
Then I got the call, not from some HR drone reading off a script, but from Richard Halden personally, the man himself. I thought it was a prank at first because why would the CEO of a multi-million dollar company be calling some nobody from a studio apartment in Lincoln Park? “You free for lunch today?” he asked like we were old buddies. No introduction, no small talk, just straight to business. That should have been my first clue about what I was getting myself into.
We met at this steakhouse downtown, the kind of place where the menu doesn’t have prices and the waiters look like they could buy your car with their tip money. Richard was exactly what you’d expect from a corporate titan. Expensive suit, confident handshake, eyes that could see right through your soul and calculate its net worth.
But there was something else there, too. something I didn’t recognize at first. Loneliness maybe, or disappointment. Tell me, he said, cutting into a steak that probably cost more than my monthly food budget. What’s the biggest mistake most business students make? I gave him some textbook answer about market research or risk assessment, the kind of they teach you to recite in interviews. He just stared at me, waiting. Try again, he said.
So, I thought about it for real this time. They think they know everything. Close. He leaned back, studying me like I was a chess piece he was considering moving. They think business is about being the smartest person in the room, but it’s not. It’s about being the most useful person in the room. That was Richard Halden in a nutshell.
Cutting through the BS to get to the truth underneath. He offered me a job that day, starting as his executive assistant, which sounds fancy until you realize it basically meant I was his professional babysitter. But the pay was good, the benefits were better, and most importantly, I got to watch a master at work. Richard didn’t just run a company.
He conducted it like a symphony orchestra. Every department, every employee, every decision was part of some larger composition that only he could hear completely. And somehow, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, he decided I was worth teaching.
you calculate,” he told me during one of our late night sessions in his office when we were going over quarterly reports and I caught an error that everyone else had missed. Most people react. Some people think, but you calculate. You see all the variables, factor in the risks, and find the optimal solution. That’s rare. It became our routine.
I’d work my regular hours, then stick around after everyone else went home to their suburban lives and their happy families. Richard would order Chinese takeout or pizza, and we’d dig into the real work, the strategy sessions, the long-term planning, the decisions that would affect hundreds of employees and millions of dollars. “My kids,” he said one night, apppropo of nothing.
“We were reviewing a potential acquisition, and he just finished explaining why the target company’s management was incompetent. “They think business is like playing Monopoly. Buy some properties, collect rent, hope you don’t go to jail.” I didn’t know what to say to that.
I’d met Marcus and Cynthia a few times at company events and George and the twins occasionally. They seemed nice enough, privileged as hell, but nice. They’re good kids, Richard continued like he was reading my mind. But good kids don’t necessarily make good executives. You know what they did last Christmas when I gave them each a small division to manage as a learning experience? I shook my head.
Marcus tried to rebrand his division as an innovation incubator and spent six months in meetings without producing anything. Cynthia decided her team needed wellness coaching and hired her yoga instructor as a consultant. George George forgot he was in charge of anything and went skiing for 2 weeks without telling anyone.
The twins weren’t even mentioned. They were still in college then, studying something that would probably never involve actual work. But you, he pointed his chopsticks at me. You’d have those divisions profitable within a quarter and running like clockwork within 6 months. That’s when I should have seen it coming.
The way he talked about his children versus the way he talked about me, the increasing responsibilities he gave me, the way he started introducing me as his right-hand man instead of his assistant. And then I met Sarah. She was different from her siblings, smarter, more grounded, actually interested in the world beyond her trust fund.
We met at some company party, bonded over our mutual eye rolling at Marcus’ attempt to network by talking about his fantasy football team, and somehow ended up talking until 3:00 in the morning about everything except business. Richard approved, which should have been another red flag.
Not approved like a normal father, happy that his daughter found someone decent, but approved like a chess player who just figured out his next five moves. She’s the best of them, he told me after Sarah and I had been dating for 6 months. She’s got the brains and the heart. The others, well, let’s just say the apple fell pretty far from the tree and then rolled down a hill. I gave him everything I had.
60-hour weeks became 70our weeks became what’s a weekend. I missed birthdays, canceled vacations, skipped my college roommate’s wedding because Richard needed me to handle some crisis that his own children should have been managing. But I didn’t mind because I was learning from the best. And more importantly, I felt like I was building something that mattered.
When Sarah and I got engaged, Richard pulled me aside at the announcement party. “You know why I chose you for that assistant job?” he asked. “Because I was cheap labor with a decent GPA.” He laughed. One of the few times I ever heard him really laugh. Because you were hungry, not for money or status or any of that You were hungry to prove yourself, to build something, to matter.
My kids have never been hungry a day in their lives. They don’t know what it feels like to want something so badly you’ll sacrifice everything else to get it. That’s when he told me about the company’s future, about his plans for succession, about his growing certainty that his biological children would destroy everything he’d built within 5 years if they ever got their hands on it. I need someone I can trust, he said.
Someone who understands what this company really is. Not just a cash machine, but a legacy. Something that should outlast all of us. Looking back now, sitting in my apartment with his final envelope on my coffee table, I realize I wasn’t just his right-hand man. I was his insurance policy, his plan B, his way of making sure that even if his own blood couldn’t carry on what he’d built, someone would.
The loyal son-in-law, the calculating protetéé, the ghost he could trust to haunt his company long after he was gone. Too bad his actual kids thought loyalty was just another word for weakness. You know what’s funny about getting fired on a Monday? You’ve got the whole damn weekend to figure out your next move.
And let me tell you, I had plans. Big plans. The kind of plans that would make Machaveli proud and probably give my therapist material for the next 5 years. I’m sitting in my home office Saturday morning. And yes, I have a home office because I’m one of those organized psychopaths who believes in having a dedicated workspace with Richard’s envelope finally torn open in front of me.
The contents are spread across my desk like evidence from a crime scene, which in a way I guess they are. The crime of underestimating a dead man’s capacity for postumous revenge. The centerpiece of this beautiful chaos is a legal document that’s more gorgeous than the Mona Lisa and twice as valuable.
It’s Richard’s transfer of ownership dated just 2 weeks before he died. Signed with the kind of flourish that screams, “I knew exactly what I was doing.” 61% of Halden Industries transferred to yours truly notorized by the most expensive lawyers money can buy and filed with the state of New York faster than you can say hostile takeover. But that’s not the best part. Oh no, Richard wasn’t content to just hand me the keys to the kingdom.
The man included a handwritten note, and I’m talking actual handwriting, not some typed up corporate memo that says, and I quote, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down. You earn this. Use it wisely and remember, revenge is a dish best served with quarterly reports. The man had a sense of humor right up until the end.
I’d be laughing if I wasn’t so busy being absolutely terrified by the magnitude of what he just handed me. My coffeey’s gone cold, but I can’t be bothered to get a refill because I’m too busy cross-referencing ownership laws and corporate governance rules. Thank God for Google and my borderline obsessive need to understand every detail of every situation I find myself in. Turns out majority ownership means exactly what it sounds like. I own their asses, lock, stock, and barrel.
By Saturday afternoon, I’m deep down the rabbit hole of corporate law, surrounded by printouts and legal documents like some kind of business school dropout who’s finally found his calling. I’ve got my laptop open to 17 different tabs. SEC regulations, Delaware corporate law because of course the companies incorporated in Delaware precedent cases for hostile family takeovers. This is better than Netflix and twice as addictive.
The really beautiful part is that everything’s airtight. Richard didn’t just hand me a piece of paper and hope for the best. This transfer has been planned probably for months, maybe years. Every eye is dotted, every tea is crossed, every possible legal challenge has been anticipated. and shut down before it can even get started.
The man was playing chess while his kids were still figuring out checkers. Sunday morning, I’m on the phone with Amamira Patel, my lawyer. Well, technically, she’s about to become my lawyer because up until this weekend, I couldn’t afford anyone who charges more per hour than most people make in a week.
Amamira’s got a reputation for being tougher than a $2 steak and twice as hard to swallow if you’re on the wrong side of her arguments. She also happens to specialize in corporate law and has a particular fondness for cases involving family businesses gone wrong. This is legitimate, she tells me after I’ve emailed her scanned copies of everything. Ironclad.
Actually, whoever drew this up knew exactly what they were doing. Richard’s lawyers. I explain the man didn’t believe in cutting corners. Smart man. This transfer is bulletproof. They could challenge it, but they’d be wasting their money and their time. You’re the majority owner, which means you control the board, you control the company, you control everything.
By Sunday afternoon, I’ve got Jonathan Cross on a conference call. Jonathan’s my financial adviser, another professional I couldn’t afford until this weekend, but who’s about to become very important to my life. The man’s got a voice like butter and a brain like a calculator.
and he’s explaining to me exactly what controlling 61% of Halden Industries actually means in terms of cold hard cash. “We’re talking about a company valued at roughly 250 million,” he says, like he’s discussing the weather. “You’re controlling interest puts your net worth at.” Well, let’s just say you’re not going to be worried about making your mortgage payments anymore.
I’m sitting in my kitchen staring out the window at my neighbor mowing his lawn trying to process the fact that I went from unemployed to multi-millionaire in the span of a weekend. It’s the kind of thing that happens in movies or fairy tales. Not to regular guys who got fired on Monday for having the audacity to actually do their jobs. But here’s where it gets really fun. Because majority ownership doesn’t just mean I’m rich.
It means I have power, real, legitimate, legally protected power over the same people who spent Monday morning treating me like yesterday’s garbage. I spend Sunday evening going through Richard’s files. And yes, the man kept copies of everything at home because he trusted his family about as far as he could throw them.
What I find is better than Christmas morning and more satisfying than that first sip of coffee when you’re running on 3 hours of sleep. Marcus has been funneling money through something called Synergy Consulting Solutions, which sounds impressive until you realize it’s basically his golf buddy Steve charging the company 50 grand a month to provide strategic guidance.
The strategic guidance, near as I can tell, consists of playing 18 holes and complaining about their wives over expensive whiskey. Cynthia has been even more creative. She somehow managed to get the company to pay for her yoga studios rent, utilities, and equipment by classifying it as employee wellness initiatives. Never mind that the only employees who ever used it were her and her Instagram influencer friends.
The company’s been subsidizing her spiritual journey to the tune of about 30 grand a year. George’s crimes against capitalism are more straightforward, but no less impressive. The man’s been charging luxury cars to company accounts, claiming they’re necessary for client relations.
We’re talking about a Porsche, a BMW, and something called a McLaren that costs more than most people’s houses. Client relations, my ass. The only client George has is his ego. And the twins? Oh, the twins have been busy little bees. They’ve been leaking company information to their boyfriends who happen to run some kind of social media marketing firm.
confidential client lists, upcoming product launches, internal financial projections, all of it getting passed along so their boyfriends can offer targeted marketing solutions to our competitors. It’s like they were trying to destroy the company from the inside, one stupid decision at a time.
If I wasn’t so impressed by the sheer creativity of their incompetence, I’d be genuinely angry. But here’s the thing about revenge. It’s not about anger. Anger is messy, emotional, unpredictable. Revenge is about patience, planning, and precision. It’s about setting up your pieces on the board and then waiting for exactly the right moment to make your move. Monday morning is going to be that moment.
And I’m going to enjoy every single second of it. You know what they say about apple trees and how the fruit doesn’t fall far from them? Well, let me tell you, the Halden family tree must have been planted in some seriously toxic soil because every single apple that dropped turned out to be rotten to the core.
And I’m not talking about your garden variety forgot to pay a parking ticket kind of rotten. I’m talking about the kind of systematic creative corruption that would make a hedge fund manager blush. I’m back in my home office on Sunday night, armed with a fresh pot of coffee and what can only be described as the greatest hits collection of corporate malfeasants.
Richard’s files read like a crime novel, except instead of murders and kidnappings, we’ve got embezzlement and fraud wrapped up in designer suits and justified by the kind of entitlement that only comes from being born into money you never had to earn. Let me start with Marcus, the self-appointed CEO and crown prince of bad decisions.
This guy’s got consulting contracts that would make a mob lawyer jealous. Synergy Consulting Solutions. And yes, that’s actually what he called it because apparently he thinks adding Synergy to anything automatically makes it sound legitimate.
Has been billing the company for services that exist only in Marcus’ imagination and Steve Brennan’s golf handicap. I’m looking at invoices here that would be hilarious if they weren’t so infuriating. Strategic market analysis, $15,000. Competitive landscape evaluation, $22,000. Executive leadership assessment, $18,000. You know what Steve Brennan actually did for that money? He played 36 holes of golf with Marcus every Tuesday and told him he was doing a great job. That’s it. That’s literally it. But it gets better.
Steve’s been charging the company for research trips to Pebble Beach, Augusta National, and Pinehurst because apparently you can’t properly analyze market conditions without experiencing them from the 18th T. The man’s got receipts for hotels, meals, green fees, and something called caddy consultation services that I’m pretty sure is just code for we got drunk and told the caddy about our business problems.
Then there’s the equipment. Oh god, the equipment. Marcus has convinced the company to purchase essential consulting tools that include a $3,000 golf simulator for the office, a $5,000 massage chair for stress management during high pressure strategic sessions, and I kid you not, a $1,200 humidor because proper climate control is essential for maintaining optimal thinking conditions.
The man bought a cigar storage unit with company money and somehow managed to get it approved as a business expense. Moving on to Cynthia, who’s apparently been running her own little wellness empire on Daddy’s Dime. Her yoga studio, Sacred Space Sanctuary, because of course she named it something that sounds like it was conceived during a Peyote vision quest has been classified as a company wellness initiative.
The rent, utilities, equipment, insurance, even the godamn essential oils have all been flowing through the corporate accounts. But here’s where Cynthia really shows her creative genius. She’s been paying herself as the chief wellness officer of her own studio, $2,500 a month to teach yoga classes that are supposedly available to company employees, except the only people who ever show up are her Instagram friends and whatever guy she’s dating that week.
She’s literally created a fake job for herself and convinced the company to pay her to do her hobby. The invoices are a work of art. Mindfulness integration consulting, chakra alignment workshops, crystal healing seminars for executive stress management. I found one bill for $800 worth of healing crystals that were supposed to enhance corporate decision-m through vibrational energy optimization.
The woman charged the company $800 for rocks. Expensive rocks, but still rocks. And then there are the retreats. Oh, the retreats. Cynthia has been organizing executive wellness retreats that are really just expensive vacations to places like Tulum and Sedona. The company’s been paying for flights, hotels, meals, spa treatments, and spiritual guidance sessions that look suspiciously like regular massages with extra zeros on the price tag.
George, bless his simple little heart, went with the classic approach. If you want something, just buy it and figure out how to justify it later. The man’s been treating the company credit card like his personal shopping account and his justifications read like they were written by someone who thinks business expense is just another way of saying I want this.
The Porsche 911 Turbo essential for maintaining professional image during client meetings. The BMW M5 required for efficient transportation to regional business development opportunities. The McLaren 720S that costs more than most people’s houses necessary for establishing credibility with high netw worth potential clients.
Right, George? I’m sure your drug dealer was really impressed by your commitment to automotive excellence. But it’s not just cars. George has been living like a rap star on the company’s dime. Designer suits charged as professional wardrobe requirements. A Rolex submariner classified as essential timekeeping equipment for executive scheduling.
A vacation to Dubai that somehow got approved as a Middle Eastern market research expedition. Even though our company has exactly zero business interests in the Middle East, my personal favorite is the $15,000 he spent at a strip club in Vegas that he tried to pass off as entertainment expenses for potential investors.
When the accounting department questioned it, he claimed he was conducting market research on the hospitality industry. The hospitality industry at a strip club. The balls on this guy, I swear. Now, the twins, Olivia and Clare, have managed to turn corporate espionage into a side hustle.
And honestly, I’m almost impressed by their entrepreneurial spirit. Their boyfriends run something called digital synapse marketing. Another one of those names that sounds important but means absolutely nothing. And these two have been feeding them inside information like they’re running their own little intelligence operation.
Client lists, pricing strategies, product launch timelines, internal financial projections, everything’s been getting passed along so their boyfriends can offer competitive analysis services to our rivals. They’ve basically been selling our secrets to the competition and getting paid for it through their boyfriend’s company. The paper trail is incredible.
There are emails, text messages, even Instagram DMs discussing which information to share and how much to charge for it. They’ve got a whole price list. Client contact information goes for $500. Upcoming product launches are worth $1,000. And internal financial data commands premium pricing at $2,500 per report. But here’s the really beautiful part.
They’ve been so sloppy about it that they left digital fingerprints everywhere. screenshots of confidential documents with their names clearly visible in the metadata, email forwards that include their corporate signatures. They even posted Instagram stories from business meetings that were actually handoffs of classified information.
It’s like watching a master class and how not to commit corporate espionage. These two couldn’t run a successful criminal enterprise if their lives depended on it, but they sure as hell tried. Looking at all this evidence spread across my desk, I can’t help but feel a weird mixture of disgust and admiration. Disgust because they’ve been systematically looting their father’s company while he was dying.
Admiration because the sheer scope of their incompetence is actually kind of impressive in its own way. Richard built this company over 40 years, turning it from a small regional operation into a multi-million dollar empire, and his children managed to turn it into their personal ATM in less than a decade. It’s almost artistic in its destruction. But tomorrow’s Monday, and Monday is when the art exhibition comes to an end.
Monday morning hits different when you’re supposedly unemployed. Instead of my usual ritual of grabbing coffee and heading straight to the office, I decide to take a little stroll through downtown, you know, just to see how the other half lives.
Plus, I’m curious about how fast news travels in this town and whether the Halden family’s version of events has already made its way into the local gossip mill. Turns out, small town business communities are like high school cafeterias. Everyone knows everyone’s business before the person living it even figures out what happened.
I haven’t even made it two blocks before I run into Tom Harrison from the hardware store who gives me this look like I just told him my daughter Tom says and I can immediately tell he’s going into full sympathy mode. Heard about what happened. Real shame, you know, after everything you did for that company. He shakes his head like he’s contemplating the injustices of the universe.
Family businesses, am I right? Blood’s thicker than water, but it’s also thicker than brains sometimes. I nod and try to look appropriately devastated. Yeah, it’s been a tough week. You know what? Tom claps me on the shoulder like he’s delivering profound wisdom. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. Fresh start, new opportunities. You’re still young. Got your whole life ahead of you. Young.
I’m 37 years old and Tom’s treating me like I just graduated college and got my first heartbreak. But I play along because this is actually fascinating from an anthropological perspective. It’s like watching a nature documentary about how humans respond to perceived weakness. Thanks, Tom. I appreciate that. He digs around in his wallet and pulls out a business card that looks like it was printed sometime during the Clinton administration.
Listen, my brother-in-law’s got a landscaping business. Good, honest work outdoors might be just what you need to clear your head. Give him a call. Tell him I sent you. Landscaping from corporate executive to lawn care in one week. The man’s basically suggesting I take up gardening as a career move and he’s doing it with the kind of earnest enthusiasm usually reserved for charity work.
I take the card because what else am I going to do? I’ll definitely consider it. I tell him, which is technically true since I’m considering how hilarious it would be to show up at Marcus’s house with a leaf blower and a weed whacker. The coffee shop is even better. I walk into Brewers. Yes, that’s actually the name. And yes, the owner thinks it’s clever and the entire place goes quiet for about 3 seconds.
You know that moment in old western movies when the stranger walks into the saloon and the piano player stops playing? Yeah, that’s basically what happened, except instead of a piano, there’s a cappuccino machine and instead of cowboys, there are suburban moms in yoga pants.
Linda Brewster herself comes over with this expression of profound sympathy, like she’s about to deliver news about a terminal diagnosis. Oh, honey,” she says. And I can tell she’s going to make this whole interaction about her own emotional journey. I heard what those awful people did to you after everything you’ve done for that family, too. It’s just criminal.
It’s business, I say, because I’m curious to see how she’ll respond to that business. Her voice goes up about an octave. Honey, that’s not business. That’s betrayal. Pure and simple. She leans in closer like she’s about to share state secrets.
My cousin works in accounting over there and she says the whole company’s been talking about it. Everyone knows you were the one keeping that place afloat while those kids were off playing around. This is news to me. I had no idea I’d achieved folk hero status among the rank and file. It’s almost touching in a way that makes me feel slightly guilty about what’s coming next.
Well, I say I’m sure they’ll figure it out. Linda practically snorts. Those kids, please. Marcus couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag if you gave him a map and a flashlight. And don’t even get me started on the others. She shakes her head like she’s personally offended by their existence. You mark my words.
That company’s going to be bankrupt within 6 months. She pours me a coffee that I didn’t order and refuses to let me pay for it. This one’s on the house, she says. Least I can do for someone who’s been through what you’ve been through. The rest of the morning follows the same pattern. Everyone I run into has already heard the news and everyone has an opinion.
Mrs. Chun from the dry cleaner thinks I should sue for wrongful termination. Bob from the gas station suggests I start my own consulting firm and steal all their clients. Even the mailman, a guy I’ve never spoken to in my life, stops his truck to tell me he’s sorry for my loss.
My loss like I died instead of just getting fired. The whole town’s treating me like a victim of some natural disaster. And I’m starting to understand how this narrative got built. Poor hardworking guy gets screwed over by the spoiled rich kids after their daddy dies. It’s practically a country song waiting to happen.
The really interesting part is how everyone seems to know exactly what kind of people the Halden kids are. Nobody’s surprised by what happened. If anything, people seem surprised it took this long. Apparently, Marcus, Cynthia, George, and the twins have been building their reputation for incompetence and entitlement for years, and I was just too busy working to notice.
Those kids have been riding their daddy’s coattails since they could walk, says Janet from the bank when I stop into well, not deposit my paycheck since I don’t have one anymore. Everyone knew this day was coming. Just figured it would be after the old man was gone longer than a week. By lunchtime, I’ve been offered three different jobs, two business partnerships, and one marriage proposal for Mrs.
Rodriguez’s daughter, who apparently could use a good man who knows how to work hard. The entire town has basically adopted me as their favorite charity case. The crowning moment comes when I run into Dr. Peterson, my old family physician, outside the pharmacy. He takes one look at me and immediately goes into concerned doctor mode. “How are you holding up?” he asks like he’s checking my vitals through casual conversation.
This kind of stress can really take a toll on a person. Sleep problems, anxiety, depression, it’s all very normal given what you’ve been through. I’m doing okay, actually. He gives me this knowing look that doctor’s perfect in medical school. That’s what everyone says.
Listen, if you need someone to talk to, I know a very good therapist, Dr. Sarah Martinez. She specializes in workplace trauma and family dynamics. Very discreet, very professional. Workplace trauma. The man’s basically suggesting I need therapy because I got fired and he’s doing it with the same tone he’d use to recommend treatment for a broken bone.
I take his card anyway because it seems rude not to, and because I’m genuinely curious about whether there’s actually such a thing as a therapist who specializes in workplace trauma. By the time I get home, I’ve got a pocket full of business cards. three job offers and enough pity to fuel a small town’s worth of charity drives.
The whole experience has been like getting a master class in how quickly perception becomes reality. In the span of 8 hours, I’ve gone from corporate executive to tragic hero to community project. The beautiful part is that none of them have any idea what’s actually coming.
They’re all so busy feeling sorry for me that nobody stopped to wonder whether maybe, just maybe, I’m not quite as helpless as I appear to be. Tomorrow is going to be very educational for everyone involved. There’s something almost poetic about watching vultures circle their prey, especially when the prey is too stupid to realize they’re about to become lunch. The quarterly board meeting at Halden Industries is scheduled for Thursday afternoon.
And let me tell you, the anticipation is thicker than the overpriced cologne Marcus bathes himself in every morning. I’m sitting in my car across the street from the building watching the parade of expensive suits and even more expensive egos file into what used to be my workplace. These aren’t just any suits, mind you.
These are the kind of people who measure success by the number of zeros in their bank accounts and consider anything less than a 15% return on investment to be a personal insult. Sophia Leong arrives first, stepping out of her Tesla like she’s walking a red carpet.
Sophia’s got a reputation in the investment world that’s equal parts admiration and terror. She’s the kind of woman who can smell weakness from three blocks away and has never met a failing company she couldn’t strip for parts. Word on the street is that she’s been eyeing Haldden Industries for months just waiting for the right moment to make a move.
She’s dressed in what I can only describe as corporate assassin chic, a black powers suit that probably costs more than most people’s cars, paired with heels that could double as weapons in a pinch. Sophia doesn’t just attend board meetings, she conducts them like a symphony of destruction.
The woman’s got an NBA from Wharton and the moral flexibility of a professional poker player. Right behind her is Daniel Ror. And if Sophie is the surgeon, Daniel’s the butcher. This guy’s built his fortune by buying struggling companies, firing half the workforce, and selling off everything that isn’t nailed down. He’s got the kind of smile that makes you want to count your fingers after shaking his hand.
And he’s wearing a suit that screams, “I can buy and sell your entire family before lunch.” Daniel’s approach to business is simple. If it’s not making money, get rid of it. He’s the reason at least three companies in this town have gone from family-owned institutions to empty lots over the past decade.
The man treats corporate acquisitions like a sport, and he’s got trophies to prove it. Then there’s Margaret Woo, who looks like somebody’s grandmother, but has the financial instincts of a great white shark. Don’t let the sensible shoes and conservative blazer fool you. This woman’s been playing the investment game longer than most people have been alive, and she’s got a track record that reads like a graveyard of companies that underestimated her.
Margaret’s specialty is what she calls operational optimization, which is business speak for I’m going to fire everyone and see what happens. She’s got this sweet grandmotherly way of explaining why your entire department needs to be eliminated. And she does it with the kind of smile that makes you want to thank her for destroying your life.
The rest of the investor crowd is filing in now, and it’s like watching the cast of a horror movie gather for the final scene. There’s Peterson from North Capital, a man who looks like he was born wearing a suit and has never had a conversation that didn’t involve percentages.
Kumar from Riverside Holdings, who’s made a career out of turning family businesses into corporate profit machines. Harrison from Bluestone Investments, a guy so ruthless that other investors use his name as a verb. These people didn’t drive here from their mansions and country clubs just to hear about the company’s bright future. They came because they smell blood in the water and they’re hungry for whatever pieces they can tear off once the feeding frenzy begins. I’ve been to enough of these meetings to know how they work.
The investors show up with their fake smiles and their polite questions, pretending to be interested in long-term growth strategies and sustainable development plans. But what they’re really doing is taking inventory, figuring out which assets are worth keeping and which ones they can liquidate for quick cash.
The beautiful part is that Marcus and his siblings have no idea what they’re walking into. They think this is going to be just another boring quarterly presentation where they show some charts, make some promises, and collect their paychecks. They’ve probably spent the morning rehearsing their PowerPoint slides and practicing their corporate buzzwords.
What they don’t understand is that these investors aren’t here to be impressed by their presentation skills. They’re here because they’ve been watching the company’s performance, and they know opportunity when they see it. A family business with weak leadership, declining profits, and a power vacuum at the top. That’s not a company meeting. That’s a buffet.
I watch as more cars pull into the parking garage. Every license plate represents millions of dollars in investment capital. And every person walking through those doors has the power to reshape the company with a single phone call. These aren’t people you want to disappoint, and they definitely aren’t people you want to lie to.
Sophia Yang’s probably done more research on Halden Industries in the past week than Marcus has done in the past year. She knows about every contract, every asset, every potential liability. She’s got spreadsheets that break down the company’s value down to the office furniture, and she’s already calculated how much money she could make by breaking it up and selling the pieces.
Daniel Ror’s got his own team of analysts who’ve been going through the company’s financials with the kind of attention to detail, usually reserved for archaeological digs. He knows about every questionable expense, every inflated contract, every penny that’s been wasted on golf trips and yoga studios, and he’s got lawyers standing by to turn that information into leverage. Margaret Wu’s probably already written three different plans for restructuring the company, each one involving fewer employees and higher profit margins. She’s got contacts at every major corporation in the industry, and she knows exactly which ones would
be interested in acquiring Halden’s client list, intellectual property, and physical assets. These people don’t just invest in companies, they consume them. They take struggling businesses and transform them into profit machines regardless of how many lives get disrupted in the process. They’re not evil exactly.
They’re just really, really good at their jobs and their job is making money. The irony is delicious. Marcus and his siblings kicked me out because they thought they could run the company better without me. They thought they were finally free to implement their brilliant vision for the future, unencumbered by my annoying insistence on things like competence and fiscal responsibility.
Instead, they’ve created a power vacuum that’s about to be filled by people who make lone sharks look like kindergarten teachers. These investors aren’t here to help the company succeed. They’re here to pick over the bones. And the best part, I get to watch it all happen from the front row.
You know that moment in movies when the hero walks into the saloon and all the piano music stops? When every conversation dies mid-sentence and suddenly everyone’s staring like they’ve just seen a ghost walk through the door. Well, let me tell you, real life can be just as dramatic when you time it right. And I’ve been planning this entrance for exactly 3 days, 17 hours, and 42 minutes.
It’s 2:47 p.m. on Thursday afternoon and I’m standing outside the conference room door listening to Marcus drone on about revolutionary market positioning and synergistic growth opportunities. The man’s been talking for 12 minutes straight.
And from what I can hear through the door, he’s basically reading directly from a business school textbook while completely ignoring the fact that half the people in that room could buy and sell him before their afternoon coffee gets cold. I’m wearing my best suit, the charcoal gray Armani that Sarah bought me for our anniversary two years ago, back when she thought I had a future at this company. My shoes are polished to a mirror shine.
My tie is perfectly knotted, and I’m carrying a leather portfolio that contains enough legal documentation to end this little charade once and for all. I look like success. I smell like confidence, and I’m about to become the most unwelcome party guest in corporate history.
The door handle turns with the kind of satisfying click that only comes from expensive hardware. And I step into what used to be my second home. The room’s exactly as I remember it. Floor to ceiling windows offering a view that makes you feel like you’re looking down at your kingdom. That massive oak table that’s probably worth more than most people’s houses and leather chairs arranged around it like thrones waiting for their kings.
But today, those thrones are occupied by people who could buy this entire building with their lunch money. and they’re all staring at Marcus like he’s a particularly entertaining trained seal. Sophia Leang’s got her chin resting on her manicured fingers, watching him with the kind of polite attention you give to a child who’s explaining why the sky is blue.
Daniel Roork’s checking his phone, probably calculating how much money he’s losing by sitting through this presentation. Margaret Woos taking notes, but I’m pretty sure she’s writing her grocery list. The conversation doesn’t just stop when I walk in. It dies. like literally dies. Marcus is mid-sentence.
Something about leveraging our core competencies to maximize stakeholder value when he sees me and his mouth just stops working. His brain’s clearly trying to process what his eyes are seeing and the results are not pretty. Sorry I’m late, I say like I’m apologizing for traffic instead of crashing what they probably thought was their coronation ceremony. I hope I didn’t miss anything important. The silence in the room is so complete you could hear a stock price drop.
Sophia Yangs eyebrows have climbed so high they’re practically in her hairline. Daniel Rors put down his phone and is staring at me like I’m some kind of fascinating business anomaly. Margaret Woos stopped pretending to take notes and is watching this unfold with the kind of interest usually reserved for train wrecks and reality TV.
Marcus finally manages to get his mouth working again. What? What are you doing here? He stammers, and I can practically see the gears grinding in his head as he tries to figure out how to handle this situation without looking like a complete amateur in front of people who eat corporate executives for breakfast.
Well, I say, setting my portfolio down on the table with the kind of deliberate care that lawyers use when they’re about to ruin someone’s day. I’m here for the board meeting. This is the quarterly board meeting, right? Cynthia has found her voice and she’s using it to channel every bit of indignation her yoga classes have failed to eliminate. You don’t belong here. She snaps.
You were terminated. You have no right to be in this room. I love it when people give me perfect setups like that. It’s like watching someone load the gun you’re about to shoot them with. Actually, I say, opening my portfolio with the kind of theatrical flare that would make a magician jealous. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.
I pull out the document. Richard’s transfer of ownership still crisp and official looking despite being handled more than a lottery ticket and slided across the table toward the investors. As of two weeks ago, I own 61% of this company. The silence that follows is so profound it has its own gravitational field. I’m pretty sure Sophia Leangs heart actually stopped for a second because she goes completely still in a way that suggests her brain is recalculating everything she thought she knew about this meeting. Marcus looks like someone just told him
that gravity’s been cancelled and he’s about to float away. His face goes through about 17 different expressions in the span of 3 seconds. confusion, disbelief, anger, panic, and finally settling on something that looks like he’s trying to solve advanced calculus in his head while someone’s hitting him with a baseball bat. That’s impossible. He finally manages to croak out.
Daniel Ror, meanwhile, has picked up the document and is reading it with the kind of intense focus that suggests he’s either very impressed or very concerned about what he’s seeing. Margaret Woos leaned over to Reed over his shoulder and her expression is shifting from polite boredom to genuine interest.
“This appears to be legitimate,” Daniel says. And his voice has that careful neutrality that lawyers use when they’re trying not to take sides in what’s clearly about to become a bloodbath. Of course, it’s legitimate, I say, because now is not the time for false modesty. Richard transferred majority ownership to me 2 weeks before he died.
It’s all properly notorized, filed with the state, completely legal and binding. George, who’s been sitting there looking like he’s trying to remember what planet he’s on, finally speaks up. But, but we fired you. I can’t help it. I actually laugh. Not a mean laugh.
Just the kind of laugh you give when someone says something so absurd that your brain can’t process it any other way. You can’t fire the majority owner, George. I explain like I’m talking to a particularly slow child. That’s not how ownership works. The investors are having their own silent conversation through a series of meaningful looks and raised eyebrows. Sophia is sitting back in her chair now, and I can practically see her recalculating her entire approach to this meeting.
Daniel’s still studying the document, but he’s got this little smile that suggests he’s starting to enjoy the show. Margaret’s got her notebook out again, but this time, I’m pretty sure she’s actually taking notes. So, I continue settling into the chair at the head of the table. Marcus jumps up like it suddenly caught fire.
Why don’t we start this meeting over? I believe you were in the middle of explaining our growth strategy. The look on Marcus’ face suggests he’s just realized he’s been playing checkers while everyone else was playing chess, and the game’s just gotten a lot more interesting.
You know what’s better than Christmas morning? Watching entitled rich kids realize their trust fund just turned into a pumpkin. And let me tell you, the look on my dear in-laws faces right now is worth more than all the money Richard left me, which considering what he left me is saying something. I’m sitting at the head of the table now in what used to be Richard’s chair and briefly became Marcus’ throne of delusion with my portfolio spread out like a buffet of justice.
The investors are leaning forward like they’re watching the season finale of their favorite show. And frankly, I can’t blame them. This is better entertainment than anything Netflix has produced in years. Now that we’ve established ownership, I say pulling out the first Manila folder with the kind of deliberate care that executioners probably use when selecting their instruments.
I think it’s important that our investors understand exactly what kind of leadership this company has been operating under. Sophia Leang’s got her chin resting on her hands. Watching this unfold with the kind of fascination usually reserved for nature documentaries about predators taking down their prey. Daniel Roors got his phone out, but he’s not checking messages.
He’s recording this probably for posterity or blackmail purposes. Margaret Woos taking notes like she’s documenting a new species of corporate incompetence. Let’s start with Marcus, I say, sliding a thick stack of papers toward the center of the table. our self-appointed CEO and strategic visionary. Marcus looks like he’s about to throw up, which is understandable considering what’s about to come out of this folder.
His face has gone through several color changes and settled on something that resembles old cheese. Synergy Consulting Solutions. I announce like I’m introducing the main act at a circus, a company that exists solely to funnel money from Halden Industries into Marcus’ golf habit. I spread out the invoices like playing cards.
Strategic market analysis, $15,000 for 18 holes at Pebble Beach. Competitive landscape evaluation, $22,000 for a long weekend in Scottsdale. Executive leadership assessment, $18,000 for what appears to have been a bachelor party in Vegas. Daniel Ror picks up one of the invoices and starts reading it aloud. quote, “Conducted extensive market research through direct observation of consumer behavior in hospitality environments with particular focus on high- netw worth demographic preferences in recreational settings.” He looks up at Marcus with the kind of
expression you’d give a dog that just ate your homework. This is a receipt from a strip club. Research. Marcus sputters like he’s actually going to try to defend this. It was legitimate business research at the Spearmint Rhino. Sophia Yangs voice could cut glass.
What exactly were you researching, Marcus? The aerodynamics of dollar bills. Margaret Wu’s chuckling now, actually chuckling. And when Margaret Wu finds something funny, it usually means someone’s about to lose everything they own. I’ve seen some creative expense reports in my time, she says. But this is genuinely impressive.
You managed to charge a company retreat to a golf resort where the only employees present were you and your drinking buddy. I’m enjoying this more than I probably should. But you know what? I earned this moment. Eight years of watching Marcus fumble his way through meetings while I did the actual work. And now I get to watch him explain his receipts to people who could buy his soul for pocket change.
Moving on to Cynthia, I say, pulling out the next folder. Our chief wellness officer. Cynthia is trying to look dignified, which is challenging when you’re about to be exposed as a corporate parasite in front of the most ruthless investors in the state.
She’s got that yoga instructor serenity thing going, but her eye is twitching in a way that suggests her chakras are definitely not aligned. Sacred Space Sanctuary, I announce a yoga studio that somehow became essential to our corporate wellness program. The invoices for Cynthia’s little empire are even more ridiculous than Marcus’ golf adventures. I spread them out like evidence at a crime scene.
$2,500 monthly for mindfulness integration consulting. $800 for healing crystals to enhance executive decision-making. $1,500 for a spiritual retreat in Sedona that was attended by exactly one employee, Cynthia herself. Sophia Yang picks up the crystal invoice and examines it like it’s a rare archaeological find. You charge the company $800 for rocks.
They’re not rocks, Cynthia says with a kind of wounded dignity that suggests she actually believes her own They’re carefully selected mineral specimens designed to optimize vibrational energy in the workplace. $800 rocks, Daniel Rors, like he’s trying to make sure he heard correctly, that you bought for yourself to put in a yoga studio that you own, that the company pays the rent for.
Margaret Wu stopped taking notes and is just staring at Cynthia with the kind of fascination usually reserved for exotic zoo animals. Dear, I’ve been in business for 40 years, and I’ve never seen someone successfully monetize their hobbies quite so thoroughly. George is trying to sink into his chair, probably hoping he can disappear entirely before his turn comes up. Fat chance, buddy.
I’ve got a whole folder with his name on it, and it’s thick enough to stop a bullet. George, I say, and he actually flinches. Our director of client relations and automotive enthusiast. His folder hits the table with a satisfying thud. The car receipts alone could finance a small nation’s military budget, a Porsche 911 Turbo for client meetings, a BMW M5 for regional business development, and my personal favorite, a McLaren 720S for establishing credibility with high netw worth clients. A McLaren. Sophia Yang’s voice has gone up about three octaves.
You bought a McLaren with company money? It was for business. George protests, but his voice cracks like he’s going through puberty again. Image is important in client relations. George Daniel Ror says, “With the patience of a saint explaining basic math to a goldfish, we looked at your client interaction reports.
You’ve personally met with exactly three clients in the past 2 years.” Three. And one of them was your drug dealer. The twins are whispering frantically to each other now, probably trying to figure out if they can make a break for the door before their turn comes up. But I’ve saved the best for last.
Olivia and Clare, I say, pulling out the final folder. Our intelligence operatives. This folder is different. It’s got screenshots, email printouts, text messages, even Instagram posts. The paper trail of their little espionage operation is spread across the table like a treasure map leading to corporate sabotage. Digital synapse marketing.
I announce the boyfriend’s company that’s been buying our trade secrets like they’re shopping for groceries. I start reading from their price list. Client contact information $500. Product launch timelines $1,000. Internal financial projections 2500. They even offered a bulk discount for industrial espionage. Sophia Leang’s gone completely still, which is never a good sign.
When Sophia Leang stops moving, it usually means someone’s about to get financially obliterated. You sold confidential company information to competitors. It wasn’t like that. Olivia starts, “We were just helping them understand the market,” Clare adds. “You were committing corporate espionage,” Margaret Wu says. and her grandmotherly voice has gone arctic.
Industrial espionage. That’s not just a firing offense. That’s a federal crime. The silence that follows is so complete you could hear a pin drop in the parking garage. My beloved in-laws are sitting there looking like they’ve just realized they’re not the stars of this show. They’re the punchline. I lean back in my chair and smile.
So, I say, sliding resignation letters across the table. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing these for your signatures. You know what’s beautiful about watching a house of cards collapse? It’s not the destruction itself. It’s the perfect silence that follows when all the and bluster and fake confidence finally settles into dust.
And everyone’s left staring at what was always underneath. Absolutely nothing. The resignation letters are sitting on the table like death sentences, and my dear in-laws are staring at them like they’re written in hieroglyphics. Marcus picks his up with the kind of trembling hands usually reserved for people diffusing bombs or handling radioactive material. The paper rustles in the silence and honestly it’s the most productive sound he’s made all day.
This is he starts then stops probably because his brain finally caught up with his mouth and realized that anything he says right now is going to sound like the whimpering of a defeated animal. Illegal. I suggest helpfully. Fraudulent. criminally stupid. Yeah, all of the above.
Sophia Leang’s got her arms crossed and is watching this family meltdown with the kind of professional interest that art critics reserve for particularly spectacular train wrecks. I have to admit, she says, her voice carrying just a hint of admiration. In 20 years of investment banking, I’ve never seen a more comprehensive case of corporate self-destruction. Daniel Rors got his phone out and is already making calls, probably to lawyers who specialize in cleaning up messes this spectacular. This is going to make one hell of a case study, he mutters between conversations.
Harvard Business School’s going to want to frame this. Cynthia is crying now, but they’re not the elegant tears from Daddy’s funeral. These are the ugly, snot-filled tears of someone who’s just realized that their trust fund paradise is about to turn into a federal investigation. This isn’t fair.
She sobs like fairness has anything to do with industrial espionage and embezzlement. We’re family. Family? I repeat, tasting the word like it’s gone sour, right? The same family that fired me a week ago. The same family that spent 8 years treating me like hired help while I kept this company from collapsing under the weight of your collective incompetence.
George signs his resignation without even reading it, which is probably the smartest thing he’s done in months. His hands are shaking so badly he can barely hold the pen, and his signature looks like a seismograph during a major earthquake. The twins are whispering to each other in what I can only assume is twin language. Probably trying to figure out if there’s some way to spin selling company secrets as a misunderstanding.
There isn’t, but I admire their optimism. Margaret Woos finished her notes and is studying the family like they’re specimens in some kind of corporate behavior laboratory. You know, she says conversationally, “I’ve seen families destroy generational wealth before, but usually it takes them decades.
You managed to do it in less than a week after your father’s funeral. That’s actually kind of impressive.” Marcus finally finds his voice, and when he does, it comes out as this pathetic wine that would make a wounded puppy sound dignified by comparison. You can’t do this. This company belongs to our family. Our father built it for us. Your father built it despite you.
I correct him and he left it to someone who actually knew how to run it. That someone happens to be me. I stand up and walk to the windows looking out at the city spread below like a kingdom I never asked for but definitely deserve. Behind me, I can hear the scratching of pens on paper as resignation letters get signed with all the enthusiasm of people signing their own death warrants.
The thing is, I say, not turning around because I want them to hear this in my voice instead of seeing it in my face. I actually liked working here. I believed in what your father built. I thought maybe, just maybe, you’d grow up and become worthy of inheriting something this important.
Olivia sniffles loudly and I can hear Clare comforting her in whispers that sound like air leaking out of a balloon. But you didn’t grow up. You got older, sure, but you never grew up. You never learned that actions have consequences, that other people’s livelihoods depend on the decisions you make, that running a company isn’t the same as playing business dress up.
I turn back to face them, and the site is almost pitifully satisfying. for grown adults who’ve spent their entire lives having everything handed to them, finally discovering what it feels like when the silver spoon gets yanked out of their mouths. The resignation letters include non-disclosure agreements. I explain like I’m giving them instructions for operating a toaster.
You don’t talk about company business. You don’t talk about what happened here today. And you definitely don’t talk to the press in exchange. I don’t press charges for fraud, embezzlement, and industrial espionage. Sophia Young looks impressed. That’s surprisingly generous. It’s practical. I correct her.
Criminal trials are expensive and time-consuming, and frankly, I’d rather spend my energy fixing what they broke than watching them do per walks on the evening news. Daniel ross off the phone now and is reviewing the signed resignation letters like he’s checking homework. This is all properly executed, he announces.
Congratulations, you’re officially unemployed. The investors start gathering their things and I can see the wheels turning in their heads. They came here expecting to carve up a failing company and instead they’re walking away from what’s probably going to be a very profitable turnaround story.
Sophia is already talking about follow-up meetings. Daniel’s discussing potential consulting contracts and Margaret’s making noises about long-term strategic partnerships. My former in-laws are filing out of the room like defeated soldiers retreating from a battlefield they never should have entered in the first place.
Marcus pauses at the door and looks back at me with something that might be respect or might just be shock induced confusion. For what it’s worth, he says, I think dad would be proud. No, I tell him, settling into the chair that’s finally officially mine. Your dad would be relieved. The door closes behind them with a soft click that sounds like the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.
The boardroom’s quiet now, except for the hum of the air conditioning and the distant sounds of a city that has no idea what just happened in this glass tower. I lean back in my chair, Richard’s chair, my chair, and look out at the view that comes with being the boss. 3,000 employees are counting on me to keep this company afloat.
Dozens of clients are trusting me to deliver on contracts that were nearly destroyed by incompetence and greed. And somewhere out there, Richard’s probably laughing his ass off at how perfectly his final plan worked out. Don’t let them ruin it, heed whispered with his last breath. They didn’t. I pull out my phone and dial Jenny’s extension.
She answers on the first ring, probably because she’s been waiting for news about whether she still has a job. Jenny, it’s me. Clear my calendar for the rest of the week. We’ve got a company to rebuild. Monday was fun, but Tuesday is going to be even better.
