Chapter 2
Two
“Fizz Co is a soft drink company catching global traction due to its focus on better ingredients and taste.” I point to the large screen with my presentation displayed.
On the projected slide, a list of ingredients Fizz Co has vowed to never use.
“As we all know, consumer trends show the population being more health focused. This is a hot space. A purchase while they’re still gaining recognition gives us room to scale them to become the next Coca-Cola or Pepsi—” I give the room a pointed look. “But better.”
I strategically pause to let that sink into the twenty people sitting around the mahogany table. The lights are off, but much like my office, the exterior wall of windows lets enough light into the conference room to highlight every set of raised brows.
“Not only are there options for a carve out—there’s a kombucha line, sparkling waters, sodas—pop for you Midwesterners—” At the collective chuckle, I click a button, and the screen transforms to a new chart of the company’s divisions.
“But they’ve also recently acquired—” My phone dings, startling me.
I never have my phone on in meetings of this magnitude, but with Mom in surgery, I don’t have a choice.
I murmur an apology to the committee and open the text.
Rue: Just got an update that things are a little more complex than anticipated but they aren’t concerned. Why do I want to puke? Remy is driving me crazy, btw. She’s reciting positive affirmations and I’m about to strangle her.
“Shit.”
I darken the screen and turn my attention back to the projected presentation. Where was I?
“Sorry about that.”
If complex means too much bleeding, it could cause neurological deficits post-surgery. It could make recovery harder and side effects permanent. I’m in the middle of my pitch. I stare at the slide until the point I was making comes back to me.
“Juice,” I manage to remember. “They have a new juice line. Like all their other products, even the sodas, there are no artificial colors or flavors, some options adding naturally sourced vitamins and minerals.” This earns a unified motion of approving nods and pen clicks as I knew it would.
Cutting artificial dyes is all the rage now.
“Of course, if this line doesn’t prove to be viable, it could be discontinued before too much capital is pumped into it. ”
There’s another collective nod—if this room knows anything it’s how to cut a loss without batting an eye.
We learn early on in this industry to never get emotionally attached to any one component of a deal—it reduces bias and keeps the profit-driven path forward easy to navigate.
For better or worse, it’s bled into the way I view all relationships—romantic or otherwise—that don’t align with my long-term goals.
Every aspect of life is easier when useless plugs get pulled early.
“And,” I continue, “as you can see in the model, despite Fizz Co being midsized, its brand recognition is well above competitors of their size which already puts us in a favorable position for ROI and scalability.”
I wonder what “a little more complex than anticipated” really means?
“What’s the working capital look like?” someone asks.
It can’t be too dramatic, or they wouldn’t say they aren’t concerned.
“That’s a great question.” And that’s a stalling line.
Focus, Reese. I smile and click to the next slide, launching into a breakdown of numbers.
I shove hypothetical brain bleeds aside and focus.
For the next hour, I go through every number and reference the spreadsheets and graphs on the wall as we go.
I don’t get another message but check my phone a dozen times.
My body is fully on this thirty-second-floor conference room, but my mind is split between this deal and wondering why the hell I don’t have another update.
“Any red flags from the EPA?” Matt asks. “Or activism trends we need to be worried about?”
“Hippies against soft drinks?” I volley in jest, making the room chuckle yet again even though they would all agree hippies are the absolute worst. They might have good intentions, but they’re a pain in the ass and make every dollar hard earned.
“You never know,” he says with a slight smile. Then, more seriously, “But water consumption could be an issue. And plastic and aluminum waste is a hot topic in manufacturing with these companies.”
“You’re right . . .” I check my phone: nothing.
“Reese, do you need a minute?” Trish, one of the managing partners, asks. She’s genuine and unannoyed—if I said yes, she’d be fine with it—but the fact I’m distracted enough she notices throws me. “We can take five?” she offers.
“Of course not.” I clear my throat then smile. “No five needed. Fizz Co has passed all environmental tests and there are no known lawsuits. Clean as a whistle.”
“Do we have a concentration risk in any one co-packer or ingredient supplier?” Derek, another partner, asks. “And how much CapEx are you thinking is needed to modernize?”
“I’m glad you asked that because actually—” My phone dings and robs the well-researched answer right from my lips.
Got more info: tumor wrapped itself around a blood vessel.
I start my response then remember the twenty suits staring at me. “Sorry, they actually—”
My phone dings in my hands. But she’s doing well. Sorry, probably should have included that in the last one.
The timing of this could not be worse.
It’s Matt’s voice that follows. “If I’m not mistaken, I think we’d have options to utilize a co-packer of our own.”
I freeze. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s answering questions. Meant for me. In my goddamn meeting.
“Reese can correct me if I’m wrong, of course,” Matt adds, looking at me along with everyone else. With a sincere look on his face. “But I’d put expected CapEx to be about two hundred million with an IRR of twenty to twenty-five percent. Do you agree, Reese?”
I clear my throat. “Yes.”
“How does this deal impact our overall portfolio concentration?” Trish pipes in. “And what percent of fund capital would be allocated to this sector after investment?”
“Overall it would—” My phone dings again, tightening my chest. Something is wrong with Mom, I feel it in my bones.
“And the suppliers?” Brandi adds.
I look at Matt. This isn’t ideal. This is actually the opposite of ideal.
But if I don’t find out what’s going on at that hospital, I won’t be able to think clearly.
Against every business instinct I have, I nod for him to answer.
“Matt’s read up on the numbers and will field the next couple of questions. I have to make a call.”
Matt says, “Sure thing,” and I slip into the hall, already dialing Rue.
“What the hell is going on down there?” I demand through clenched teeth. Through the interior windowed walls of the conference room, Matt takes my position at the front to deliver the information. I don’t know if I’m thankful or pissed.
“God, Reese. Chill out, will you?” Rue snaps. “I’m giving you the updates we’re getting. They didn’t exactly invite us back to the OR.”
“What else did they say?” I bark. “Was the nurse worried?”
“She’s a nurse. They’re bred to deliver bad news without emotion. Robots in scrubs.”
I blow out a frustrated breath as everyone laughs at something Matt says. “Well how much longer? You’re fucking up my meeting.”
“Fucking up your meeting?” Rue guffaws. “How dare Mom’s brain grow a tumor around a blood vessel without consulting your schedule or appeasing your insatiable need to be better than everyone.”
“I don’t need to be better,” I say evenly, “I just am.”
“You’re a money-obsessed pain in the ass, actually,” Rue shoots back.
Across the conference room, Jake comes into view, cleaning the windows in the background of Matt pitching my deal.
He’s holding a one-hundred-dollar squeegee while figures in the hundreds of millions are being tossed around in front of him and there’s a billion-dollar view behind him.
He is tethered to a cage and sandwiched by wealth and if his mother was having brain surgery, he wouldn’t be arguing with his sister about it on the phone because he’d be sitting next to her.
Matt sticks a hand in his pocket and pulls out a lollipop, unwrapping it then sticking it in his mouth.
In my pitch.
“I have to go,” I tell her. “Matt just put a fucking lollipop in his mouth. I’ll call you after my meeting.”
“Wait. Who’s Ma—”
I end the call.
In the room, I take my position next to Matt and do my best to look grateful as I mouth, Thank you. He nods and takes his seat. Sucking on his diabolical lollipop.
“Sorry about that,” I apologize to the room. “Where are we?”
Projected on the wall is the last slide of my presentation. I missed all the final key points. Though the vibe is positive, it also screams meeting over. People are checking phones, rustling papers, and murmuring to neighbors. My well-rehearsed closing remarks won’t land. Dammit.
“I think Matt answered everything,” Trish says. “I’m intrigued, to say the least. There’s no denying this could be a huge asset in our portfolio.” She glances at the Rutledge brothers beside her. “We’ll need time to review.”
The meeting didn’t go exactly like I planned—I should have rescheduled the surgery—but those words sound like a win.
“The committee will debrief and let’s say—” Trish looks at her Rolex. “We meet in two hours. My office? That work for you, Reese?”
“Absolutely.”
“Perfect.” Her smile is there as fast as it’s gone then she turns to her brothers. They exchange hushed words before she calls, “Matt, can we have a minute before the debrief?”
“Sure thing.” He winks at me—I want to gouge that eye out—then strolls to them.
As I gather my papers, the room fills with an excited buzz. The sound means one thing: Fizz Co is about to be ours. Mine. I’ll have a ton of work in the coming months, possibly years, but it’ll pay off; it always does.
I check my phone—nothing—then drop it into my bag.
At the clear view of the Windy City, I smile to myself. A couple of more years of winning deals like this and the Rutledge family might just adopt me and make me a managing partner.