6. Gideon
6
Gideon
T he boardroom falls silent as I enter. Ten executives straighten in their chairs, conversations dying mid-sentence. I don’t acknowledge them immediately, letting the weight of my presence do the talking. The floor-to-ceiling windows frame Manhattan’s skyline behind me. A reminder of what I’ve built, what I protect.
“Quarterly projections,” I say, setting my laptop on the polished mahogany table. “Let’s start with residential developments.”
For two hours, I listen to reports, challenge assumptions, and approve strategies with the same cold efficiency that’s built my empire. I’m back to being Gideon King, billionaire, not the man who spent a night with an artist whose paintings still haunt me. Not the man who broke his cardinal rule and fucked her a second time on my desk before walking away.
That was a fucking stupid mistake. I’m done making mistakes like that.
The meeting ends. Numbers and strategies dissected, weaknesses identified, solutions implemented. The executives filter out, shoulders relaxing once they escape my scrutiny. Only Jonas remains, his face tight with an expression I recognize too well.
“You have that look,” I say once the door closes.
Jonas loosens his tie. “We need to talk.”
“About?”
“Blackwell.”
I feel a muscle tighten in my jaw. Mark Blackwell. The sixty-something real estate vulture with a tech portfolio and an old grudge. “What’s he done now?”
Jonas pulls out his tablet and slides it across to me. “There’s been unusual movement in our stock. Small acquisitions through shell companies, board members suddenly unavailable for our calls.”
I scan the data, recognizing the pattern immediately. “He’s positioning for a takeover.”
“Looks that way.” Jonas runs a hand through his sandy hair. “We’ve tracked fifteen separate entities acquiring positions. All lead back to him.”
“Fuck.” I pace to the window, staring at the skyline I’ve helped shape. “How much time do we have?”
“Days. Maybe a week before he makes his move public.”
I turn back to face my cousin, my CFO. The one man I trust completely. “Get everyone in my office in thirty minutes. Legal team, PR, security. And get me everything we have on Blackwell’s recent activities.”
The next three hours are a war room session. Our intelligence confirms what Jonas suspected. Blackwell has been systematically working to turn my board members and key investors against me. His approach isn’t just business; it’s personal. He wants to humiliate me, strip away what I’ve built, reduce me to nothing. Just as Celeste nearly did four years ago.
“We can implement a poison pill,” our lead counsel suggests, referencing a defensive strategy that would make a hostile takeover prohibitively expensive.
I shake my head. “Blackwell has the capital and the grudge to swallow that cost. He’d see it as the price of revenge.”
“What about a white knight strategy?” Jonas suggests, rubbing his temples. “We could approach someone like Westfield or Nakamura Group to counter Blackwell’s bid.”
“Nakamura wouldn’t touch this with the current market volatility,” I respond, pacing the length of the conference room. “And Westfield has been eyeing our Chelsea properties for years. They’d use this as leverage to carve out pieces they want.”
Ella clasps her hands on the table. “Maybe a staggered board structure? Make it impossible for him to replace the entire board at once.”
“That requires shareholder approval,” I counter. “We’d need six weeks minimum to call the vote. Blackwell’s moving now.”
The director of our commercial division clears his throat. “What about leveraging our debt covenants? If we restructure certain holdings, we could trigger protective clauses.”
I consider this for a moment, then shake my head. “That would restrict our operational flexibility for years. We’d survive Blackwell only to slowly strangle ourselves.”
“A litigation strategy might buy us time,” another attorney suggests. “We could file regulatory complaints about his acquisition methods.”
“On what grounds?” I ask sharply.
“We could argue market manipulation based on the pattern of his shell companies’ purchases.”
“Not enough evidence,” Ella interjects before I can respond. “And litigation would signal weakness to the market. Our stock would plummet.”
I stop at the window, staring at my reflection superimposed over the city I’ve spent a lifetime conquering. Behind me, I can see my team watching, waiting for the solution they expect me to produce. It’s what I do: transform impossible situations into victories. But the weight of this one settles differently on my shoulders.
“What about a scorched earth approach?” I turn back to them. “We could divest key assets to friendly entities with buyback provisions. Make what Blackwell wants worthless until he retreats.”
The room falls silent. It’s a nuclear option, one that would preserve control but potentially devastate shareholder value in the short term.
Jonas meets my eyes, his expression grave. “That’s a last resort, Gideon. We’d face shareholder lawsuits for years.”
I press my palms against the cool mahogany table. “Keep it on the table. Sometimes survival requires sacrifice.”
For three more hours, we work through strategies. Employee stock ownership plans, golden parachutes for key executives to prevent defection, dual-class stock restructuring. Each option presents its own fatal flaw: too slow, too weak, too legally questionable, or too damaging to the company itself.
As evening descends, my security chief enters with new intelligence, his usual stoic expression tinged with what looks almost like concern .
“Sir, we’ve found what Blackwell is planning to exploit.”
He pulls up a document on the central display. It’s our company charter. A specific clause is highlighted: the deadlock provision.
“What am I looking at?” I demand, though the cold weight settling in my stomach tells me I already know.
Ella Winters, my lead counsel, steps forward. “It’s something we inherited when we acquired Meridian Properties. If certain voting thresholds can’t be achieved, a neutral third party gains temporary voting control to break the deadlock.”
“And Blackwell has been positioning his people to create exactly that scenario,” Jonas concludes.
“How did we miss this?” My voice is dangerously quiet.
“The provision was buried in subsection 17.3.8 of the charter’s appendix,” Ella says. “Blackwell must have had someone reviewing every document related to King Enterprises for months.”
I slam my fist on the table. “Find me a way out of this. Now.”
The team disperses. An hour later, Ella returns with Jonas and three other attorneys from our legal team.
“I think we’ve found something,” she says, her expression grave. “Though you’re not going to like it.”
“I’m already not liking any of this. Spit it out.”
She places a folder before me. “A Spousal Asset Protection Trust.”
I stare at her. “You want me to get married?”
“Let me explain.” She opens the folder. “By transferring assets to an SAPT, you could fund a parallel investment entity managed by your spouse. This entity can acquire additional shares through a derivative structure that Blackwell can’t touch.”
“And this would stop him how, exactly?”
“The key is in the SEC disclosure requirements,” another attorney, Gerald, explains. “Only a legal spouse can create this arrangement without triggering beneficial ownership disclosures that would alert Blackwell to the countermove.”
I lean back, processing. “You’re telling me the only way to protect everything I’ve built is to get married? Immediately?”
“Yes,” Ella confirms.
“You said it yourself,” Jonas agrees. “Sometimes survival requires sacrifice.”
Ella nods. “But there’s more you should understand. The marriage must appear genuine to withstand scrutiny, but actual emotional attachment would complicate the exit strategy. When this crisis passes, dissolving the arrangement could become messy if real feelings develop.”
I laugh bitterly. “Find another way.”
Jonas gives me a look, but says nothing.
“I’m not getting married,” I tell them.
They leave, and I pour myself two fingers of scotch, staring at the city lights. The same lights I stared at with Ava three nights ago, before I took her to my bed and broke all my rules. Before I sent her away the next morning, knowing I’d never see her again.
My phone buzzes. Jonas.
“What?” I answer.
“Blackwell’s accelerated his timeline. He’s meeting with the Danvers Group tomorrow. If they flip, we lose our largest institutional investor. ”
“Shit.” I down the scotch. “Get back here.”
Jonas returns in twenty minutes, and I’ve already gone through every scenario in my head. Each one ends the same way.
“I need a wife,” I say when he walks in.
He doesn’t look surprised. “I figured you’d come around. Any candidates in mind?”
I mentally review the women in my social circle. Vanessa Clarke? Too connected to Blackwell’s daughter. And too annoying. Rebecca from the charity board? Too hungry for status, she’d leverage the situation. Sarah from the museum committee? Too shrewd, she’d see through it instantly and demand a real commitment.
My eyes drift to the painting on my wall. The one I quietly purchased from Ava’s show the day after I sent her packing. A swirl of colors that somehow capture both passion and restraint, vulnerability and strength. Like the woman herself.
“Ava Redwood,” I say, the name leaving my lips before I’ve fully processed the thought.
Jonas follows my gaze to the painting. “The artist? The one you...”
“Yes.”
I told him all about Ava. Our one night stand. The painting. I don’t keep secrets from him.
He seems doubtful. “You think she’d agree to this?”
“Everyone has a price.” The words sound hollow even to me. “She’s in debt from art school. She needs exposure for her work. I can offer both.”
“And you think you can keep it strictly business? After you’ve already...”
“That was physical. This would be contractual.” I turn away from the painting. “She’s perfect for this. She’s unknown in business circles, has no connections to Blackwell, and has legitimate artistic credibility. The press will eat up the story of the billionaire falling for the struggling artist.”
Jonas looks skeptical. “If you say so.”
“Have the team pull together everything we have on her. Full background check. I want to know her weaknesses, her desires, what would motivate her to agree.” I pause, remembering the vulnerability in her eyes when she spoke about her art. “And I want a contract drafted with specific provisions for her artistic career. Gallery shows, connections, funding for her work.”
“And a clause about emotional attachment?” Jonas asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes. Explicit language that this is a business arrangement only. No emotional entanglement.” I turn back to the painting, remembering how her body responded to mine, how she looked at me with such openness. How good she tasted . “That needs to be crystal clear. Also, I want you to engage an external firm. I don’t want this traceable back to our corporate legal team.”
Jonas makes notes. “Got it. I’ll contact Dean Wess at the gallery where you found her.”
An hour later, he returns looking frustrated. “Wess is on a buying trip in Europe. Won’t be back for days.”
“We don’t have days. What about gallery records?”
“Privacy policies. They won’t release contact information.”
I check my watch. Nearly midnight. “Blackwell’s meeting with three more board members tomorrow. We need to find her within 48 hours. ”
“I’ll put our best people on it.”
“Not good enough.” I stand, suddenly restless. “Use whatever resources necessary. Private investigators, data mining, whatever it takes.”
“Gideon, are you sure about this? There are other women who might be easier to—”
“I’m sure.” I cut him off, moving to stand before the painting again. Something about it, about her , just feels right for this. Perfect, actually. “She saw through my bullshit that night. She didn’t care about my money or my name. That’s exactly the kind of person Blackwell wouldn’t expect.”
Jonas sighs. “If you’re certain.”
“I am.” I stare at the painting, seeing not just the colors and lines, but Ava’s face as she’d looked at me that morning, wounded but head held high as she’d walked out of my life. “Find her, whatever it takes. We have less than 48 hours. Talk to my driver, see where he took her. Talk to the gallery staff.”
As Jonas leaves, I remain standing before the painting. The irony isn’t lost on me. After walking away from Ava with such finality, here I am, desperate to find her, to bind her to me through a legal contract. Not because I want her, I tell myself. But because I need what she represents. An unknown variable Blackwell can’t anticipate, a shield against attack.
But as I stare at the swirls of color that somehow captured the essence of who she is, I wonder if I’m lying to myself again. Just as I lied when I told her our night together was a beautiful mistake that wouldn’t be repeated.
This time, the mistake will have to last much longer than a single night.