7. The Art of Corporate War
7
THE ART OF CORPORATE WAR
ALEX
There are exactly three things I hate in this world: cold coffee, board meetings before 8 AM, and watching Mackenzie Gallo completely derail my acquisition plans while looking incredibly sexy while doing it.
"With all due respect, Mr. Drake," she says, which in corporate speak means 'prepare to be disrespected,' "buying TechVibe right now would be like trying to perform heart surgery with a sledgehammer."
The conference room falls silent. Even Gerald, who's been trying to push this acquisition through for months, stops mid-sip of his five-dollar coffee.
Mackenzie stands at the head of the conference table, command center of our morning meeting, wearing a deep purple suit that shouldn't work as well as it does. Her curls are trying to escape their professional updo, and there's a spot of what looks like espresso on her sleeve.
She's been here since dawn. I know because I watched her march past my office at 5:30 AM, muttering about 'corporate testosterone poisoning' and 'male ego-driven acquisitions. '
"The numbers support this acquisition," Gerald argues, because apparently, he's feeling brave this morning. "TechVibe's market position?—"
"The numbers support whatever narrative you want them to," Mackenzie cuts in, pulling up another slide. "But have you looked at their employee satisfaction scores? Their turnover rates? Their Glassdoor reviews?"
I lean back, watching her work. It's like witnessing a master chef filleting a particularly expensive fish – precise, brutal, and somehow elegant.
"Their latest product launch was six months behind schedule," she continues, "their senior developers are jumping ship faster than rats from the Titanic, and their CEO just bought his third yacht. But sure, let's talk about market position."
"Ms. Gallo," Barbara Cho interjects, "this acquisition represents a significant opportunity?—"
"To repeat the same mistakes we made with Innovatech?" Mackenzie’s eyes find mine across the table. "How's that working out for us?"
Damn her for being right. Again.
"Perhaps," I say, drawing everyone's attention, "we should consider Ms. Gallo's concerns before proceeding."
Gerald's face turns an interesting shade of purple. "Alexander, the board has already?—"
"The board," I cut in, "hired Ms. Gallo for exactly this kind of analysis. Unless you'd prefer another viral blog post about toxic acquisition strategies?"
The room temperature drops about ten degrees. Our friend @MizzByteMyAlgos has been suspiciously quiet lately, but their last post about predatory tech acquisitions is still making waves.
"Speaking of which," Barbara says, "has security made any progress identifying the leak? "
I watch Mackenzie, but her poker face is flawless. "The investigation is ongoing."
"Well, it needs to conclude," Gerald snaps. "This blogger is becoming a serious problem. Their posts about our corporate culture?—"
"Are surprisingly accurate," Mackenzie interrupts. "Maybe instead of hunting down the source, we should address the issues they're highlighting?"
I hide my smile behind my coffee cup. Two weeks ago, I would have been leading the witch hunt for our anonymous critic. Now, watching Mackenzie Gallo systematically dismantle our toxic practices while building something better... well, let's just say my perspective has shifted.
The meeting wraps up with Gerald looking constipated and Barbara making ominous notes in her tablet. As everyone files out, I catch Mackenzie’s eye. "My office. Five minutes."
She nods, gathering her materials with the efficiency of someone who's learned to move quickly between corporate battlegrounds.
In my office, I close the door and obscure the glass walls with a switch – a luxury her fishbowl workspace doesn't afford. "That was quite a performance."
"Truth usually is." She drops into one of my visitor chairs, finally letting exhaustion show. "Please tell me you're not still considering the TechVibe acquisition."
"You mean after you publicly eviscerated every aspect of it? I do enjoy a challenge, Ms. Gallo, but I'm not suicidal."
She snorts, an oddly endearing sound from someone who looks like she stepped off a corporate fashion runway. "Could have fooled me. Taking my advice about corporate culture? That's practically CEO suicide."
"And yet, our retention numbers are up fifteen percent since you started. "
"Twenty," she corrects, then immediately looks like she regrets it.
"You've been tracking the daily changes?"
"I'm thorough."
"So I've noticed." I study her, noting the dark circles under her eyes barely concealed by makeup. "How long have you been here this morning?"
"Long enough to know that TechVibe's been systematically underpaying their female engineers for three years." She meets my gaze. "Sound familiar?"
And there it is again. The elephant that's been dancing between us since our late-night encounter in her office.
"The salary adjustments are in progress," I say carefully. "HR is?—"
"Moving at the speed of continental drift?" She stands, pacing. "While women keep getting paid less for the same work?"
"These things take time?—"
"Time is money, Mr. Drake. And right now, you're spending it on women's backs."
The passion in her voice hits me like that champagne did.
Unexpected. Powerful. And oddly intoxicating.
"You're right." The words surprise us both. "So help me fix it."
She freezes mid-pace. "What?"
"Help me fix it." I stand, moving around my desk. "You've got the data, the insight, and apparently a direct line to every employee's concerns. Work with me on this."
"Work with you?" She laughs. "I thought that's what I was doing."
"No, you've been working for me. There's a difference."
She studies me, and I find myself hoping my poker face is as good as hers. Because right now, all I can think about is how her eyes flash when she's passionate about something, how her hands move when she's making a point, how?—
"Fine." She nods. "But we do this my way. No board interference, no corporate politics, no?—"
My phone buzzes. Then hers does. Then probably every phone in the building.
@MizzByteMyAlgos has struck again:
"brEAKING: When will tech bro CEOs stop thinking that buying a failing startup will fix their midlife crises? Honey, that's what sports cars are for. #TechTakeover #WhoNeedsTinderWhenYouHaveAcquisitions #StartupDating"
Mac chokes on her coffee. "Well, they certainly have... opinions."
"Accurate ones," I admit. "They've been following acquisition trends closely."
"The whole industry has," she points out. "It's not exactly a secret that tech companies treat startups like Tinder profiles - swipe right for acquisition, left for bankruptcy."
The tension between us shifts. And so do I.
“Think this calls for dinner," I say abruptly.
"Excuse me?"
"If we're going to work together on this, we should discuss strategy. Over dinner."
"That sounds suspiciously like?—"
"A business dinner," I clarify. "To discuss the salary adjustments. Unless you'd prefer another midnight meeting in your office?"
Her cheeks flush slightly, and I wonder if she's remembering how close we stood that night, how the air felt charged between us, how?—
"Fine," she says quickly. "Business dinner. But I pick the place."
"Let me guess – the famous La Famiglia?" I remember the details from her file - three generations of Gallos running one of Seattle's most beloved Italian restaurants. "Your grandmother's place, right?"
"Been studying up on me, Mr. Drake?"
"Thorough background checks are standard procedure." I don't mention how many times I've reread her file since she started. "Though I have to admit, the five-star Yelp reviews about your nonna's 'life-changing tiramisu' were particularly interesting."
"You've been reading our Yelp reviews?"
"Know your enemy, Ms. Gallo."
"Is that what I am? Your enemy?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibilities.
"Let's just say I like to be prepared," I deflect. "Though I notice most reviews mention something about your grandmother force-feeding people while judging their life choices."
That gets a real laugh from her. "Yeah, that's Nonna. Food is love, but it's also reconnaissance."
"Seven o'clock?" I cut in, saving us both from that particular conversational landmine. "I'll have my driver pick you up."
"I can drive myself."
"I'm sure you can. Seven o'clock?"
She sighs, but I catch the smile she's trying to hide. "Seven o'clock. But I'm still picking the restaurant."
"As long as it's not your family's place.”
"Afraid of a little home cooking, Mr. Drake?"
"Afraid of being ambushed by a group of Gallos who, if they’re anything like you, can throw a mean glass of Chianti my way, Ms. Gallo."
She laughs again, heading for the door. "Smart man. There's hope for you yet."
I wait until she's gone before pulling up the latest blog post again.
Fuck .
Doesn’t help that the timing is too perfect, the details too specific.
Problem is: We’ve had a thousand disgruntled employees since the acquisition. Could be any one of them.
The timing of these posts is interesting, though.
My phone buzzes – Emma with the latest PR report. Apparently, the anonymous blogger's post is trending. Various tech news sites are picking up the story, speculating about which company is being referenced.
I should be angry. Should be launching investigations, tightening security, doing whatever it takes to plug the leak.
Instead, I find myself admiring the strategy. The way the posts are timed for maximum impact. The careful balance of specific details and plausible deniability.
It's exactly how I'd do it, if I were trying to force change.
I check my watch – eleven hours until dinner. Eleven hours to decide if I'm really ready to play this game. Because make no mistake, it is a game.
My phone buzzes again. A text from Grayson, my college roommate:
GRAYSON: Just saw that blog post about your midlife crisis acquisition. Do you need me to have my cyber security team trace this blogger? Or should I start shopping for your sports car?
ME: I'll handle the blogger. And I already have a sports car.
GRAYSON: Your Rolls Royce doesn't count. I mean a proper midlife crisis vehicle. Red. Convertible. Something that screams "I'm overcompensating for my gray hair”
ME: Shouldn't you be focusing on that new dating app of yours instead of critiquing my vehicle choices?
GRAYSON: Multitasking. Also avoiding my sister’s wedding planning calls. Speaking of avoiding relationships - how's that corporate culture consultant working out? The one who baptized you in champagne?
ME: Professionally? She's brilliant. Otherwise? None of your business.
GRAYSON: That's not a denial. Should we be worried about the pact? Because if you crack first, Connor owes me $5000
ME: The pact isn't in danger. It's just business
GRAYSON: Sure. That's why you’ve been texting us back after midnight most nights. Because your mind is on business
ME: It hasn’t been past midnight EVERY night
GRAYSON: Yet you didn't deny the possibility of you cracking. Interesting. Very interesting.
ME: Don't you have some digital dick to provide to your hungry app base?
GRAYSON: Fine, avoid the topic. But bachelor weekend is in two months. If you show up with a plus-one, Connor and I will never let you live it down. Remember: last man standing buys the retirement yacht
ME: Your concern for my love life is touching. And expensive
GRAYSON: Hey, you're the one who suggested that bet in '02. "I'll never settle for less than perfect" - direct quote from drunk Stanford Alex
ME: I hate that you remember my exact words
GRAYSON: That's what best friends are for. That, and taking your money in bets they know you won’t win
ME: Don’t worry about my shit, Gray. I’ll handle it
Because I will. One way or another.
But first, I have a company to run, a board to manage, and about fifty emails about that damn blog post to ignore.