“Your operations division,” Robert interjected, pulling up a spreadsheet on the monitor, “shows significant cost overlap in middle and senior management. Six VPs, 14 senior managers, all in supply chain and operations. Industry standard for a company Redstone’s size is three VPs, maybe eight senior managers. That’s where we’ll see the most restructuring impact.”
I watched Tom Brewster pale. He was operations. Those were his people.
“Our team is experienced,” he protested weakly. “30, 40 years of institutional knowledge in some cases.”
“Institutional knowledge is valuable,” I agreed, “when it translates to efficiency. When it doesn’t, it’s just expensive nostalgia.”
I let that sink in, then softened my tone slightly.
“Mr. Hendricks, Redstone needs this acquisition. Your Q4 numbers are going to be disastrous. Two more quarters like this and you’re facing bankruptcy, not buyout. We’re offering you a future. The terms are fair. Take them.”
He took them. Signed right there, hands shaking slightly, initialing every page while his CFO witnessed. Patricia collected the documents with clinical efficiency.
And just like that, Redstone Manufacturing belonged to NextTech Solutions. Belonged to me.
“We’ll announce Monday morning,” I said as we stood. “Market open, simultaneous press release. Your board will receive detailed integration plans by Tuesday. The transition team arrives Wednesday.”
Part 2
After they left, Robert closed his laptop with a satisfied click.
“That was almost too easy.”
“Desperation makes people flexible.”
I stayed at the window, watching Hendricks and his team hurry to their car through the rain.
“Sarah, I want the personnel files on my desk by tomorrow afternoon. All of them, but flag the operations division specifically.”
“Looking for anyone in particular?” she asked, though her tone suggested she knew.
“Just want to understand what we’re working with.”
That evening, alone in my penthouse, I spread Redstone’s organizational charts across my dining table. The company employed 847 people across three facilities, Tacoma, Phoenix, and a smaller operation in Ohio. The Tacoma plant, the flagship facility, employed 412.
And there in the operations division were the names I was looking for.
Richard Sullivan’s file was thick. 31 years of employment, starting as a floor supervisor in 1993, climbing steadily through shift manager, operations manager, director, and finally VP of operations in 2015.
His performance reviews were consistent. Meets expectations. Reliable. Maintains status quo. Nothing exceptional, nothing innovative, just steady, unremarkable competence in an industry that was slowly dying.
His salary progression told a story, too. He’d peaked at 192 three years ago, then received only cost-of-living adjustments since. The raises had stopped when the company started struggling, but nobody had told him the ship was sinking. Or maybe they had, and he’d been too arrogant to listen.
Brandon’s file was thinner but more damning. Eight years at Redstone, all of it in supply chain under Dad’s division. His performance reviews showed a pattern. Strong scores in teamwork and company loyalty. Mediocre scores in innovation and initiative. The classic profile of someone promoted because of who they knew, not what they delivered.
His last review from six months ago included a note from his supervisor.
Brandon works well within established systems but struggles when asked to develop new approaches. Recommend keeping in current role rather than advancing to director level.
In other words, he’d hit his ceiling. He was never making director, never mind VP. His career had plateaued at 35 because he lacked the vision and drive to go higher.
And he sat at Thanksgiving dinner pitying me.
I poured myself a whiskey, Macallan 25, the bottle I saved for significant moments, and let myself feel it fully. Not anger. Not vindictiveness. Something colder and more precise. Justice, maybe, or just the natural consequence of their own limitations catching up with them.
My phone buzzed. A text from Aunt Carol.
Hope you got home safely yesterday, thinking about what you said. You’re stronger than they give you credit for.
I stared at it for a long moment, then typed back:
Thank you. I think you’ll see exactly how strong very soon.
Sunday, I spent 12 hours at the office with my leadership team, finalizing every detail of Monday’s announcement.
The press release was crafted to maximize impact. NextTech Solutions, valued at $12 billion, acquiring legacy manufacturing company in strategic diversification move. My name would be everywhere. My face, the professional headshot I’d finally agreed to after the IPO, would be in every business publication.
“Your father is going to see this,” Sarah said quietly late Sunday night, when it was just the two of us reviewing final edits.
“I’m counting on it.”
“And you’re ready for that conversation?”
I looked up from my laptop. Sarah had been with me for seven years. Since she was a junior assistant and I was the CEO of a company valued at $200 million instead of $12 billion, she’d seen me navigate hostile board members, aggressive competitors, and gender discrimination that would have destroyed someone with less resolve. She knew me better than almost anyone.
