Chapter 50
KENT
Isat in the leather chair across from my father’s massive mahogany desk, my hands resting on the manila folder that contained everything I’d prepared for this conversation. I had spent a week creating careful arguments that I hoped might change everything.
My father’s study was a temple to success and intimidation.
Bookshelves lined three walls. The fourth wall was dominated by a window that looked out over the manicured grounds of the estate, though today the view was obscured by the kind of gray December sky that made everything look dark and unwelcoming.
The scent of cigar smoke permeated the air. He wasn’t smoking, but it was in the leather and the wood. The study was the place where my brothers and I often gathered before dinner. Good scotch and better cigars. It was part of our ritual. We could sit back and relax.
But there was nothing relaxing now.
I had been trying to sit down with him for days. I wasn’t sure if it was intentional or what, but he kept putting me off. He said his schedule was packed with year-end meetings, budget reviews, and the kind of high-stakes negotiations that had built the Bancroft empire.
So much for him being retired. He was doing it wrong.
“Drink?” he asked.
“No thanks.”
I needed to be completely sober.
I had my ducks in a row. Every financial projection had been triple-checked.
Every market analysis had been verified against multiple sources.
I had spent nearly a week assembling what I hoped was an ironclad business case for why Bancroft Industries should reconsider its approach to the Northwood acquisition.
I hadn’t been able to talk to Austin like Hudson had suggested but I wasn’t sure it would have mattered.
He didn’t return my call, which was a dick move, but part of me was relieved.
Whatever wisdom Austin might have offered about standing up to our father was unlikely to really help.
I needed to find my own way through this conversation.
This was my battle to fight and my chance to prove that I could be the kind of man who did the right thing even when it was difficult.
“So,” Dad said, settling back in his chair. “You said this was about the Northwood property. I thought that deal was dead in the water.”
I opened the folder and slid a copy of the original acquisition offer across the desk to him. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“Yeah?” He glanced down at the papers, his expression unreadable. Dad had perfected the art of the poker face decades ago. I learned early in life that trying to read his thoughts was an exercise in futility. He was successful because he could read people, even his sons.
“I want to propose an alternative approach,” I continued, my voice far calmer than I felt. “Instead of acquiring the land for oil, we invest in Northwood Lodge as a hospitality business venture.”
I slid the next set of documents across the desk, my carefully prepared business plan for transforming Bancroft Industries’ relationship with the Northwood family from adversarial acquisition to collaborative partnership.
“The lodge has been operating for over a hundred years,” I explained as he reviewed the materials.
“The farm itself has been there for centuries. The place has an established customer base, a sterling reputation, and enormous potential for growth. Rather than tearing it down to drill the land, we could help them expand their operations. Add luxury cabins, upgrade their facilities, develop it into a premier destination resort. Add a spa. Make it appealing to people from all walks of life.”
Dad’s eyes moved methodically down the page, taking in my financial projections and market analysis.
I thought I saw something flicker in his expression.
Interest, maybe. Or at least curiosity. I knew my proposal was a fraction of the money a petroleum operation would bring in, but it preserved the town.
It was good publicity instead of the usual bullshit we got when we made these business moves.
“The numbers are solid,” I pressed on. “The tourism industry in the Adirondacks has been growing steadily for the past five years. People are looking for authentic experiences, places where they can disconnect from the digital world and reconnect with nature and family. Northwood Lodge already provides that. We’d just be helping them do it on a larger scale. ”
He continued reading, his pen occasionally making notes in the margins. The silence stretched between us. I could feel my heartbeat in my neck. I was fighting for Sylvie. She might not believe me when I apologized, but I wanted to show her. Actions spoke louder than words.
Finally, he set the papers down and looked at me directly.
“What is this, Kent?”
The question caught me off guard. “It’s a business proposal. A different approach to the Northwood acquisition that—”
“No.” He held up a hand to stop me. “I can see what it is on paper. What I’m asking is why. Why would we do business in an inefficient, less lucrative way when we have a perfectly viable plan already in place? What’s in it for us?”
I took a breath, preparing to deliver the argument I’d been rehearsing for days. I knew this would be his question. It was the most obvious. “Long-term sustainability. Brand diversification. Corporate social responsibility. The hospitality sector—”
“Kent.” His voice cut through my prepared talking points like a knife. “Those are buzzwords. Marketing speak. I’m asking you what’s really in it for Bancroft Industries.”
The directness of the question forced me to abandon my carefully crafted business arguments and speak from a place that was far more dangerous—the heart.
“Doing the right thing by the owners,” I said quietly. “The Northwood family has owned that land for more than three hundred years. Their ancestors cleared those trees by hand and built that lodge. The Northwood name is woven into the fabric of that community.”
Dad’s expression didn’t change, but he leaned back slightly in his chair, waiting for me to continue.
“Drilling for oil would tear all of that apart,” I said, feeling the words gain momentum as they spilled out of me. “We’d strip away everything that makes that place special and replace it with industrial equipment and chaos. We’d destroy something irreplaceable for the sake of quarterly profits.”
“That’s just business,” Dad said with the kind of calm certainty that had built an empire. “It’s not personal.”
The words made me ill, not because they were cruel, but because they were so utterly typical of the man who had raised me.
Everything was just business to him. Profit margins and market share and competitive advantages.
He’d built his fortune by refusing to let emotion cloud his judgment, by making decisions based purely on financial logic.
But for the first time in my life, I found myself disagreeing with that fundamental principle.
“Maybe it is personal for me,” I said, surprised by the strength in my own voice.
His eyebrows rose slightly. “How so?”
“I got to know the people whose lives we’re talking about disrupting. They’re not just names on a contract or obstacles to profit. They’re a family. A community. We have the power to preserve that instead of destroying it.”
“Sentiment,” Dad said dismissively. “Sentiment doesn’t pay dividends, Kent. It doesn’t drive stock prices or satisfy shareholders.”
Something cracked open inside my chest, like a door I’d kept locked for thirty years finally swinging wide.
“Then maybe we need to reconsider what we’re really trying to accomplish,” I said. “Maybe there are things more important than maximizing every possible dollar of profit.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Dad stared at me with an expression I couldn’t read, his fingers drumming against the leather planner on his desk.
“If none of this changes your mind,” I said, gesturing toward the business plan, “then do it for me. I’m asking you. As your son.”
It was the most vulnerable I’d ever been with my father.
The most honest. For thirty years, I’d tried to earn his approval by becoming the son I thought he wanted, ruthless, ambitious, willing to do whatever it took to win.
But sitting in front of him now, I realized I didn’t want to be that person anymore.
I wanted to be someone Sylvie could respect. Someone who chose a more compassionate path to profits, connection over competition. Someone who understood that some things were too precious to have a price tag.
Dad leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his hands steepled in front of him. For a long moment, he studied my face with the intensity of someone trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle. I silently prayed for him to give me this one thing.
“This just isn’t how we do business, son,” he said finally.
I heard something in his voice I’d never heard before. Not anger or disappointment, but something that might have been uncertainty. As if my proposal had shaken something fundamental in his worldview.
“Maybe it’s time we started,” I said.
He picked up the business plan again, flipping through the pages with more attention than he’d given them the first time. I watched his face for any sign of what he was thinking, any indication that my weeks of preparation might actually be making an impact.
“The profit margins are lower,” he said eventually.
“But still profitable,” I countered. “And the investment would be sustainable long-term. Drilling has a limit. A hospitality business can generate revenue for decades.”
“The timeline for return on investment is longer.”
“But more stable. Tourism doesn’t fluctuate with commodity prices.”
He continued flipping pages. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff. My toes hanging over. One small breeze and I would fall.
“There’s something else,” Dad said suddenly, looking up from the papers. “Something you’re not telling me about this sudden change of heart.”
I shrugged. “I fell in love with the place,” I said simply.
“Ah,” he said quietly. “That explains a great deal.”
“Does it change anything?” I asked.
“Love makes people do foolish things,” he said finally. “It clouds judgment. Leads to poor business decisions.”
My heart sank, but he wasn’t finished.
“You haven’t worked alongside me in the company, so I haven’t had the chance to really train you.
One of the most important rules of business is to never let your emotions get involved.
Never mix your personal life with your professional.
I’m going to assume there’s a woman involved. That’s a mistake.”
I had to tamp down my anger. “I just presented you with a good, solid business plan. That has nothing to do with a woman. You know it’s a good plan.”
“It would be a good plan if we weren’t looking at another opportunity that provides ten times the revenue.”
I closed my eyes and did my best to control my anger. “You know what? Forget it. I’m done.”
“Kent, don’t be dramatic.”
“No, I’m done.” I could hear my voice rising, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. “I spent a week putting that proposal together. I thought maybe—just maybe—you might actually consider doing something decent for once.”
Dad rose from his chair, his hands raised in what might have been a placating gesture. “Son, sit down. Let’s discuss this rationally.”
“Rationally?” I laughed. “You want to talk rationally about destroying people’s lives for oil money? About tearing apart a community that’s existed for generations because it’s more profitable than actually building something worthwhile?”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” he said, his voice taking on that lecturing tone I heard a thousand times growing up. “You’re letting emotion cloud your business judgment. In five years, you won’t even remember the name of this place or these people who have you so worked up.”
The casual dismissal of everything that had come to matter to me pissed me off. I felt frustration and grief.
“I’m leaving,” I announced.
“Where are you going?”
I just shook my head. “None of your fucking business.”