He flinched.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“You told me tech was a boys’ club and I’d never break in. You said I was being naive about how the world works.”
I paused. Let him hear his own words reflected back.
“Do you remember what you said when I got the Stanford acceptance?”
“Maya, I—”
“You said it was a waste. That I’d drop out or fail out. That state school would be more my speed. You fought me on accepting the scholarship. Your own daughter getting into one of the best universities in the world, and you thought it was a mistake.”
His face was ashen now.
“I was worried about the pressure.”
“You were worried I’d embarrass you.”
I said it flatly, a statement of fact.
“When I did drop out after two years to start NextTech, you told everyone I’d failed. Couldn’t hack it. Typical Maya. Never finishing anything. You used me as a cautionary tale at family dinners. Don’t let your kids chase pipe dreams.”
“I didn’t know you were building something. You never told me.”
“You never wanted to know.”
The words came out sharper than I’d intended. And I took a breath. Regained control.
“Every time I came home, you talked over me, dismissed me, made sure everyone knew I was the disappointment while Brandon was the success. You did that at Thanksgiving again in front of everyone, and you enjoyed it. I saw you enjoy it.”
He opened his mouth, closed it. No defense came.
“I let you believe I was failing,” I continued, my voice quiet now, “because your opinion of me stopped mattering a long time ago. I didn’t need your approval or your validation. I built NextTech despite you, not because of you. And yes, when the opportunity came to acquire Redstone, when I saw your name in their employee directory, there was a certain satisfaction in knowing the truth would eventually come out this way.”
“You did this on purpose.”
His voice was hollow.
“You bought the company to get revenge.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I bought the company because it was a sound business decision. Redstone fits perfectly into our diversification strategy. The acquisition makes financial sense regardless of who works there. But did I take pleasure in the irony? Yes. Did I schedule the announcement the Monday after Thanksgiving specifically so you’d hear about it with the rest of the world? Absolutely.”
He sat with that, shoulders sagging under the weight of it.
“The performance reviews. Marcus Webb and his team, they’re going to recommend I be fired.”
“They’re going to recommend whatever the data supports. I haven’t seen the final assessments yet.”
This was a lie, but a strategic one. Let him think there was still uncertainty. Still hope.
“But you could protect me if you wanted to. You’re the CEO. You could tell them to keep me on.”
“I could,” I agreed. “I could also tell them to promote you, give you a raise, make you untouchable. I have that power.”
Hope flickered in his eyes, desperate and pathetic.
“But I won’t,” I finished. “Because I didn’t build a 12 billion company by making decisions based on nepotism or sentiment. I built it by hiring the best people, cutting the dead weight, and running operations with ruthless efficiency. If you’re valuable to Redstone, the numbers will show it. If you’re not, they’ll show that too.”
“Maya, please.”
He leaned forward, hands clasped like he was praying.
“I’m 58 years old. If I lose this job, who’s going to hire me? I’ve been at Redstone my entire career. I have a mortgage. Your mother’s car loan. Brandon’s old student loans we helped with.”
“You have savings, Dad. You’ve had a six-figure salary for years.”
His silence was answer enough.
No savings, or not enough. The same man who lectured me about financial responsibility had squandered three decades of solid income on a lifestyle he couldn’t actually afford.
“Brandon,” he tried desperately. “What about Brandon? He’s your brother, Maya. He’s got Jessica, the baby on the way.”