45. Gideon
45
Gideon
T he boardroom feels like a powder keg with a lit fuse. I straighten my tie and scan the faces around the massive mahogany table. Twelve board members, my executive team, our attorneys, and Blackwell with his smug expression that I’d love to wipe off with my fist.
And then there’s Ava.
She sits to my right, her legal portfolio open before her, dressed in a charcoal blazer that makes her look both professional and impossibly beautiful. I catch her eye briefly and she gives me a slight nod. For someone who never wanted any part of this corporate warfare, she looks remarkably calm.
“Shall we begin?” I keep my voice level despite the tension coiling in my gut. “The board is called to order to address the motion brought forward by Mr. Blackwell regarding control provisions.”
Blackwell leans forward, adjusting his gold cufflinks. “I believe we have clear evidence of destabilization in King Enterprises’ leadership structure. The SEC investigation alone justifies triggering the deadlock provision in section 27B.”
My jaw tightens but I maintain my composure. “The SEC found no improprieties, as you well know.”
“Yet,” Blackwell smirks. “Investigations have a way of uncovering things over time.”
Ella Winters, my lead counsel, delivers the first blow. “The deadlock provision requires two-thirds board approval to initiate, and is only applicable in situations where actual operational deadlock exists. There is no deadlock, merely Mr. Blackwell’s desire to create one.”
I watch as Blackwell leans toward his attorney, whispering furiously. I’ve seen that look before. A shark realizing the water isn’t as clear as he thought.
“Furthermore,” Ella continues, “the King Family Trust arrangement, properly filed and legally binding, prevents the very scenario Mr. Blackwell is attempting to manufacture.”
Blackwell’s attorney stands. “We challenge the legitimacy of that trust arrangement. The sudden marriage to Ms. Redwood, a complete outsider to this industry, followed by immediate transfer of critical voting rights, deserves more scrutiny.”
I feel Ava stiffen beside me, but she doesn’t flinch. She knew this was coming.
“That’s Mrs. King,” I correct coldly. “And the marriage has already withstood SEC examination.”
“A cursory examination at best,” Blackwell interjects. “Does anyone here truly believe that an art student with zero business experience should hold authority over billions in assets?”
Several board members shift uncomfortably. This is the moment I’ve been dreading. The questioning of Ava’s competence. But before I can speak, Ava closes her portfolio with a decisive snap.
“Mr. Blackwell,” she says, her voice clear and steady. “Directors of the board.”
She stands, and for a heart-stopping moment, I wonder what the fuck she’s about to do. We hadn’t discussed her speaking directly. She’d buried herself in her studio as soon as she got home last night. I’d assumed she was painting.
She runs her gaze across the room. “You’ve all received the comparative analysis I submitted last week of King Enterprises’ performance metrics against our top five competitors.”
I nearly choke. What analysis? She never mentioned sending anything to the board.
Ava continues, pulling up a presentation on the display screen that I’ve never seen before. “If you’ll direct your attention to slide four, you’ll see that under the current leadership and strategic direction, our market position has strengthened by seventeen percent year-over-year, while operational costs have decreased by four percent.”
She navigates through slides with confidence, highlighting financial projections, risk assessments, and strategic advantages with the precision of someone who’s spent decades in business, not months. I’m watching a completely different person than the paint-splattered artist who shares my bed. Those quiet mornings flash through my mind. All this time I thought she was just checking emails or browsing galleries while hunched over her laptop in the kitchen, she was actually mastering the intricacies of my business world.
“But what’s particularly relevant to today’s discussion,” she continues, reaching the final slide, “is this comparison between the proposed Riverside Corridor development under our management versus the speculative projections if control were to shift to Blackwell Holdings.”
The numbers are devastating to Blackwell’s position. Even his staunchest supporters on the board can’t ignore the fifteen-point differential in projected returns.
“I may be an artist, Mr. Blackwell,” Ava concludes, “but I understand value. And I recognize a predatory acquisition attempt disguised as concern for corporate stability.” She sits down with the same quiet grace she showed standing up.
The boardroom falls into stunned silence before an unexpected ally speaks up.
“I move we dismiss the deadlock provision motion as without merit,” says Margaret Chen, one of our most conservative board members who I expected to vote with Blackwell. “The trust arrangement appears to be functioning precisely as intended.”
I watch Blackwell’s face contort with barely concealed rage as the motion is seconded and rapidly passed with only three dissenting votes. His grand play has just imploded spectacularly.
“This meeting is adjourned,” I announce, trying to keep the triumph from my voice. “Thank you for your time.”
As the room clears, I remain seated, ostensibly reviewing notes but actually trying to process what just happened. Ava gathers her materials quietly beside me. I find myself swelling with pride just looking at her.
“That analysis,” I finally say when we’re alone. “You put that together in the mornings? On your laptop? ”
She shrugs, a small smile playing at her lips. “I’ve been paying attention. Lucy helped with some of the projections. She knows her way around commercial real estate numbers.”
“You just saved my company.” The words come out rougher than intended.
“ Our company,” she corrects. “For the next twenty-three days, anyway.”
The reminder of our contract’s expiration hits like a punch to the gut. Twenty-three days. Already?
“Let’s celebrate properly,” I say, pushing away the thought. “Dinner at Daniel. We’ve earned it.”
Two hours later, we’re seated at the best table in Daniel, champagne flowing as New York glitters beyond the windows. Ava looks radiant in her favorite blue dress she changed into, the formality of the boardroom shed along with her suit.
“To strategic brilliance,” I toast, clinking my glass against hers.
“To appearances versus reality,” she counters with a knowing look.
Her words strike closer to home than she realizes. The appearance: a business arrangement coming to its logical conclusion. The reality: I’m falling in love with my wife.
The realization doesn’t shock me as much as it should. It’s been building for weeks, maybe months. In the studio watching her paint. In bed, her body curved perfectly against mine. In quiet moments when she makes me laugh despite myself.
“Gideon? You went somewhere just now.”
I shake my head, returning to the moment. “Just thinking about how fucking incredible you were today. You blindsided everyone, including me.”
“I wanted to contribute something real,” she says softly. “Not just be a signature on legal documents. I’m surprised no one on the board told you about the comparative analysis I emailed out.”
“I suppose they assumed I already knew about it,” I counter. “You are my wife, after all. To them, anyway.” I shake my head. “You’ve contributed more than you know.” My hand reaches for hers across the table. “When this is over...”
Her eyes find mine, something vulnerable flickering in their depths.
And I can’t do it. I can’t tell her what I want to say.
Fuck me.
She deserves better than a damaged man with trust issues and a target on his back. She deserves the gallery of her dreams, the artistic freedom she’s fought for, not the complicated, dangerous life that comes with being genuinely attached to me.
It’s better this way.
“When this is over,” I continue, pulling my hand back, “you’re going to make an incredible success of your gallery. The art world won’t know what hit it.”
Something dims in her expression, but she smiles anyway. “At least something good came from our arrangement.”
I take a long drink of champagne, the victory of the day feeling suddenly hollow. I’ve won the battle against Blackwell only to lose the war against my own demons.
“To successful conclusions,” I say, raising my glass again, hating myself for the lie.