3. Not Your Average Hostile Takeover
3
NOT YOUR AVERAGE HOSTILE TAKEOVER
ALEX
Here's what they don't tell you in ‘CEO school:’ being right doesn't mean a damn thing when your board members have their heads so far up their spreadsheets they can't see the company burning down around them.
"Our acquisition strategy is working perfectly," Gerald Matthews, head of the board, gestures with his martini glass. "The numbers don't lie, Drake."
I resist the urge to loosen my bow tie. The ballroom of the Four Seasons is packed with Seattle's tech elite, all here to celebrate "innovation and community" – which apparently means watching a bunch of billionaires pat themselves on the back while drinking thousand-dollar champagne.
"The numbers might not lie, Gerald, but they don't tell the whole truth either." I scan the room, nodding at various industry players while keeping my voice low. "We've lost sixty percent of Innovatech's senior developers since the takeover. Sixty percent. In one day."
"Dead weight," Barbara Cho, another board member, shrugs her thin shoulders. "We need fresh blood anyway. Young talent. Hungry talent."
Young talent who'll work eighty-hour weeks without questioning our methods, she means.
I take a careful sip of scotch, thinking about the file still open on my desk. Mackenzie Gallo's file. The one showing her remarkable talent retention rates at Innovatech, which my board had completely ignored this morning when they overruled me on keeping her as our Director of Innovation Strategy.
"Speaking of talent," Gerald's voice drops, "did you handle that situation from this afternoon?"
By 'situation,' he means the mass firing of Innovatech's leadership team. Including Mackenzie Gallo, whose scathing comment in the lobby is still ringing in my ears.
Soul-sucking corporate wasteland, indeed.
"It's handled." Technically true. Security handled it. I just happened to be there to witness it.
"Good, good." Gerald claps my shoulder. "Can't have any dissenting voices during the integration. Bad for morale."
You know what's worse for morale? Watching your entire senior leadership team get escorted out by security. But sure, let's worry about "dissenting voices."
I check my watch. Eight-fifteen. The champagne toast is at nine, followed by my speech about "unified vision" and "synergistic growth" – all the buzzwords that mean nothing when you're bleeding talent faster than a startup burning through venture capital.
"Alex!" A voice cuts through my thoughts. Emma Martinez, my executive assistant, is making her way through the crowd with the kind of determined expression that usually means trouble. "We have a problem."
"Just one? Must be a slow night."
"The latest numbers from HR just came in." She glances at the board members hovering nearby and lowers her voice. " We're looking at another wave of resignations tomorrow. The entire mobile development team from Innovatech is planning to walk."
Awesome.
"If you'll excuse me," I nod to the board members. "Duty calls."
Emma follows me to a quieter corner near the champagne towers that some overenthusiastic event planner thought would add "elegance" to the evening. Because nothing says class like precariously balanced glassware.
"Talk to me."
"It's not just Innovatech anymore." Emma pulls out her tablet. "Word's getting around. Three senior engineers from StormTech pulled their acceptance letters this morning. The message boards are calling us 'The Place Good Ideas Go to Die.'"
I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. The PR nightmare is exactly why I'd wanted to keep Mac Gallo. Her integration methods weren't just successful – they were revolutionary. Eighty-five percent better than industry standard. The kind of numbers that make CEOs salivate.
But no. The board wanted quick wins, clean cuts. And truthfully, so did I.
None of us—least of all me—wanted that "touchy-feely culture stuff” when Drake Enterprises absorbed Innovatech.
But the backlash might be more than we can bear.
"What about the Davidson account?"
"They're worried. All this turnover isn't inspiring confidence in our ability to—" Emma freezes, her eyes fixing on something over my shoulder. "Um, Alex?"
"What?"
"Isn't that the woman you fired today?"
I turn, and there she is. Mackenzie Gallo, looking significantly more polished than she had this afternoon, stalking through my charity gala like a woman on a mission. The red power suit she'd been wearing earlier has replaced—swapped out with some silky emerald number that shows off curves I wasn’t aware Ms. Gallo had.
I swallow, my gaze sweeping across her curly up-do down to the stilettos that look like they can cut a man where he stands.
"Should I call security?" Emma whispers.
"Not yet." I find myself oddly fascinated. It's like watching a nature documentary about predators, except instead of a lioness stalking her prey, it's an angry tech executive with smooth shoulders and curvy hips. "Let's see where this goes."
"Alex, she looks ready to commit murder."
"With what weapon? Her severance package?"
"How about that bottle of Dom she just picked up?"
Ah. Well. That could be problematic.
I watch as Mackenzie Gallo snags a bottle of Dom Pérignon from a passing waiter with the smooth expertise of someone who's definitely done this before. The same bottle I specifically ordered because Gerald has expensive taste and a tendency to critique my event planning. The irony is not lost on me.
"Now can I call security?"
"Hold on." Something about her expression makes me pause. It's not blind rage. It's calculation. The same look she probably had when she was engineering those successful integrations that my board so casually dismissed. Like a chess player who's about to checkmate you with a move involving a queen and very expensive champagne.
What I don't expect is for the universe to choose this exact moment to demonstrate its impeccable sense of comedic timing.
It happens in slow motion, like I'm in The Matrix, except instead of dodging bullets, I'm watching a very angry brunette perform an interpretive dance with an $1200 bottle of champagne. A waiter backs into her path with a loaded tray. Mac stumbles. The champagne bottle becomes an impromptu aerial performance artist.
I have exactly four thoughts:
1. This suit is Armani. And dry clean only. Because of course it is.
2. That champagne probably costs more than my first car. Which, granted, was a very cheap car, but still.
3. Mackenzie Gallo has surprisingly good balance in those heels. And…
4. Her eyes are doing this fascinating thing where they can't decide if they're horrified or delighted. It's... annoyingly attractive.
The champagne hits me first – a surprisingly warm cascade of extremely expensive bubbles that makes my suit make a sound I'm pretty sure Armani never intended. Then the indomitable Ms. Gallo crashes into my chest, and the warm bubbly rushes down the front of my chest.
Fun fact: Dom Pérignon has notes of white flowers, citrus, and pure ‘your suit is forever fucked’ undertones.
"Mr. Drake!" She pushes back, looking mortified in a way that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I am so sorry. How clumsy of me.”
I take out my pocket square from my tux and wipe the front of my lapels. “Clumsy, huh? Not exactly the word I’d used. ‘Fucked up’ feels more fitting.”
Her brown eyes flash as I lift my gaze to meet hers. “Almost as fucked-up as firing an entire leadership team without considering the impact on developer retention?” she asks.
I blink. “Almost.”
Around us, the crowd has gone silent. I swear I hear someone whisper, "Oh snap!"
"You know," she continues, placing a silk scarf from her purse towards my very really soaked shirt front, "studies show that aggressive acquisition strategies like yours lead to an average seventy percent loss in senior talent within the first year. But you probably knew that, right? Just like you probably knew that Innovatech's retention rates under my integration program were eighty-five percent better than industry standard."
Suddenly, I can’t move. The feel of Mackenzie Gallo’s fingers wiping a cherry-scented scarf across my collarbone is short-circuiting my brain.
And I’m not the only one rendered speechless by the fired exec’s boldness.
Gerald looks like he's about to swallow his martini olive whole. Emma appears to be having several small strokes in succession.
And all I can think is: She's right.
She's absolutely, irritatingly, champagne-throwingly right.
"Of course," Mackenzie pats my chest, "that's probably not as important as 'streamlined integration' and 'synergistic growth.' Tell me, how's that working out for your mobile development team?"
I wait for the rage to hit me. For my ears to turn red. For my neck to burn hotly.
But it doesn’t happen. Nothing does.
Because I'm not angry.
I'm impressed. And possibly a little concussed from the sheer audacity of it all.
Because in less than thirty seconds, Mackenzie Gallo has managed to do what I've been trying to do all day: Make my board face the reality of our situation. And she did it with nothing but a bottle of champagne, publicly available statistics, and what I'm beginning to suspect is a genetic predisposition for dramatic timing.
"Actually, Ms. Gallo," I hear myself say, champagne dripping from my chin, "I'd love to hear more about your thoughts on our integration strategy. "
A beat passes, then two.
"What?" She blinks, at last.
I grin. I suspect this isn't how her revenge fantasy played out in her head.
"Over dinner, perhaps? Or..." I glance down at my ruined suit. "Given the circumstances, maybe we should start with coffee. Preferably something less... projectile."
"I... I’m still confused…?”
"Unless you'd prefer to continue this conversation with security? Though I have to warn you, they're probably less appreciative of statistical analysis."
Her eyes narrow. "You want to hire me. Bring me back.”
It's not a question. Behind me, I swear I hear Gerald's monocle pop out. (He doesn't actually wear a monocle, but in this moment, it feels like he should.)
"Let's just say I'm interested in your unique approach to corporate culture. And your aim. Mostly your approach to corporate culture."
"You fired me. Today. On my birthday."
"Technically, the board fired you. I just had the pleasure of witnessing the aftermath." I reach for a napkin from a nearby waiter's tray, who looks like he can't decide whether to help or run away. "And I have to say, your exit strategies are... memorable."
Someone in the crowd actually laughs. Probably the same person who said "Oh snap!" earlier. I make a mental note to find them later and either fire them or give them a raise.
Mackenzie crosses her arms. "And what makes you think I'd want to work for the company that just gutted mine?"
"Because you care more about the developers than your pride." I meet her gaze, champagne be damned. "And because you know that changing things from the inside is more effective than throwing champagne from the outside. Though I have to admit, the champagne made quite a statement. "
Her mouth twitches. Just slightly. But it's enough.
"Ms. Gallo," I hold out my hand, watching as a drop of Dom Pérignon rolls off my French cuff like a very expensive tear, “how would you like to be Drake Enterprises' new Corporate Culture Consultant?"
The silence in the room is so complete I swear I can hear Gerald's blood pressure rising.
"Well," she takes my hand, her grip firm and slightly sticky, “this should be interesting."
You have no idea, I think, already imagining Monday board meeting. I should probably wear a raincoat.
But for now, I just smile and say, "Welcome aboard, Ms. Gallo. I look forward to seeing what other... disruptions you bring to our corporate culture."
Her answering smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "Oh, Mr. Drake. You haven't seen anything yet."
And somehow, I believe her.
This is either going to be fantastic. Or fucked up.
Probably both.
Definitely worth dry cleaning, either way.