Chapter 6
Chapter Six
THE FATEFUL BOARD MEETING
Max
I rap my knuckles on the mahogany table, bringing the meeting to order.
Gerard Oslo, the chairman of the board, rises from his seat at the far end, tugging at his silk tie.
His gaze darts around the room, landing everywhere but on me, and the slight tremor in his hand betrays him as he adjusts his glasses.
In fifteen years as chairman, I've never seen the old bulldog's confidence waver like this.
“Max,” he says. “Before you get started, there’s a matter we need to discuss.”
“Go ahead,” I say, knitting my brows. I’m already not in the mood for this, whatever this is.
I wouldn’t be in the mood for bad news even on a full night of sleep, but, considering my lack of sleep last night, I could be ready to cut a bitch by the time this meeting’s over, judging by Gerard’s serious expression and obvious fear of addressing me.
“There’s no easy to way to say this,” he says.
“Except just to say it. The largest group of investors, the McLaughlin group led by Clarence McLaughlin, are…uneasy about your continuing on as CEO after the merger.” I put my fingers on the table and just stare.
I’m not hearing this. “They’re suggesting Iris become the CEO of the new company. ”
I close my eyes and count to 10, feeling the tension in my jaw like a vise grip.
I learned that little trick when I was seven, sitting cross-legged on Dr. Lowenstein's leather couch that squeaked whenever I shifted my weight.
The child psychologist with her silver-rimmed glasses and perpetual smell of peppermint had called it "emotional regulation.
" It doesn't always work, and right now, with my temples throbbing from twenty hours without sleep, the numbers blur together as I mutter them through clenched teeth.
"Gerard," I finally say, my voice tightening.
"That's complete bullshit and you know it.
What did McLaughlin say exactly?" I grip the edge of my desk.
McLaughlin controls twenty percent of our shares and whispers in the ears of everyone who matters.
If they're gunning for me, the vultures will circle within days.
The thought makes my stomach clench. We've delivered three consecutive billion-dollar box office years.
Our streaming shows dominate the cultural conversation.
Just last month, I closed deals with Nolan and Scorsese that had my competitors seething.
Spielberg calls me directly now, for Christ's sake.
And they want Iris Dimas in charge? She's built Dreamscape into a respected boutique studio, but they handle just a fraction of Kensington's annual business.
It's like comparing a critically-acclaimed indie press to Random House.
Dreamscape excels at creating those thoughtful films that light up Cannes and Sundance—artistic triumphs that earn critical praise rather than blockbuster numbers.
They've carved out their niche beautifully.
But Kensington consistently delivers both commercial success and awards season dominance.
Our films win Oscars while breaking box office records.
Handing the reins to Iris after the merger simply doesn't make business sense—it would upend everything we've built.
And would be a slap in the fucking face.
Gerard is intently studying a paper on the conference table, obviously wanting to be anywhere but in this conference room. I’m still staring at him, willing him to tell me what the hell is going on.
"McLaughlin expressed reservations about your... personal situation. The lack of stability in your home life, combined with your extreme youth—well, there are concerns about your ability to handle the increased pressures once the merger goes through."
"The lack of stability in my home life?" I blink twice, heat rising to my face. My fingers curl into my palms, nails digging half-moons into skin. "Since when," I say, each word measured despite the tremor in my voice, "is my personal situation either unstable or relevant to this conversation?"
Gerard clears his throat. "You've had a lot of girlfriends in the past few years.
McLaughlin has concerns about that, along with your age and rapid rise at Kensington Pictures.
" He raises his palms defensively. "Clarence is old-fashioned.
Views your romantic history as a sign of instability.
" My jaw clenches. The rational part of my brain understands that Gerard is just the messenger and strangling him wouldn't change Clarence McLaughlin's Victorian opinions about my love life.
But McLaughlin isn't sitting across from me right now.
Gerard is. The conference table between us is the only thing stopping me from wrapping my hands around his throat.
I know Clarence McLaughlin—he’s one of Granddad Joe's oldest confidants since the early Kensington days.
This realization hits me and I shake my head.
Of course. The puppet master behind this little ambush is none other than the patriarch himself.
This is his not-so-subtle nudge toward matrimony.
Clarence would never dare cross me without the old man's blessing. He's too loyal to go rogue.
The bad part is, I can’t really defend myself against the charge Clarence is making against me.
I have had a revolving door in my bedroom.
I’ve lost count of how many women I've dated.
It's a pattern I can't seem to break. They all start to blur together after a while—the same conversations, the same disinterested nods from me, the same inevitable ending.
Right now it's Rayna, before that it was—hell, I'd need both hands to count just the actresses and models from the past year.
I never overlap them; that's one line I won't cross.
But when you're burning through relationships every few months, people talk.
The tabloids love it. "Max Kensington's Revolving Bedroom Door" was actually a headline last month. No lie detected.
I start pacing around the room. “So what am I supposed to do about this? I’m 29.
Can’t change that. And I have a colorful love life, which is nobody’s goddamn business, by the way.
What the fuck does Clarence want from me?
” Or Granddad, I think. The puppeteer, the Geppetto to Clarence’s apparent Pinocchio role.
I’m going to have a word with Granddad, the sooner the better.
I’m looking at Gerard, whose face is now getting very pale. He’s trembling and I feel half-sorry for him. He has the shittiest job in the world right now, bringing me this bad news. So I take a deep breath and try not to treat Gerard like I was treating Steve the sparring mannequin last night.
“Your grandfather has a solution that will calm Clarence. If Clarence is smoothed, then…”
“Bullshit,” I say. “I doubt Clarence could care less about my romantic situation. Granddad is behind this mutiny and you can’t tell me differently.
He just doesn’t want his fingerprints on the knife in my back.
” I glare at Gerard and one look at his reddened cheeks and his downcast eyes and I know - my instinct about who’s responsible for shivving me is right. “You might as well just admit it.”
Gerard takes a deep breath and proceeds to lie for Granddad.
Of course he would. He’s fiercely loyal to my grandfather.
“No,” he says, his voice faint and his eyes still staring at the conference table.
“That’s not true.” His fingers are shaking as they graze the top of the oak wood table and, once again, I’m feeling a great deal of sympathy for him.
Man, it must suck to be him right now. Talk about being caught between Scylla and Charybdis - the poor guy is caught between my grandfather’s bullshit demands and my temper, which is about to blow.
I must calm down. He’s not the one I’m mad at, nor should he be.
“I know differently,” I say. “Call him right now. I want him at this meeting. I want him to look me in the eye and tell me that Clarence has a problem with me and not him.” I look at the conference room phone meaningfully then look at Gerard. “Call him now.”
Gerard's hands tremble violently as he snatches the phone, punching in my grandfather's number like he's stabbing at a lifeline.
The old man materializes in the doorway barely four minutes later, his presence hitting the room like a thunderclap.
No coincidence. The crafty bastard was lurking somewhere in the building, waiting for this exact moment.
At 84, with arthritic knees and a pacemaker, Granddad should be nursing a scotch at the Cabrillo Beach Yacht Club, or teeing up at the Riviera Country Club, not prowling the Kensington Pictures headquarters like some corporate vulture circling fresh carrion.
This was a goddamn ambush, and I walked right into it.
“Grandpa Joe,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Have a seat.”
He smiles that goddamn smile—the one that means he's already won. I’ve known that smile since childhood.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack.
Every executive in this boardroom thinks I'm in charge, but it's all theater.
One word from Granddad and the investors scatter like roaches.
One nod and the shareholders fall to their knees.
CEO of Kensington Pictures? Might as well be "Granddad's Puppet" on my office door.
The old bastard's eyes are gleaming now, his liver-spotted hand tapping the table.
My stomach churns acid. Whatever bomb he's about to drop will obliterate everything I've built. I can taste the humiliation already.
“Max,” he says gleefully. “I guess you heard about Clarence’s concerns.”