Chapter 101 - Sell It
Selling Nova was harder than buying it.
Not emotionally.
Administratively.
Apparently people found it suspicious when an owner spent three years fixing a company and then said—
I don't want it anymore.
Fair.
I also found it suspicious.
The first person I told was the CFO.
Not family.
Not Jane.
Not Chloe.
Not even Engr. Paolo.
CFO first.
Because feelings were allowed.
But sequencing mattered.
I slid the strategic options paper across the table.
She read it.
Stopped at number three.
Looked at me.
"Full sale?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't want to own it."
She kept looking.
I waited.
Then—
"That's it?"
"Yes."
"Performance is good."
"I know."
"Margins are still improving."
"I know."
"Management is stronger."
"I know."
"Demand is stable."
"Yes."
"Then why now?"
I leaned back.
"Because now somebody can buy a healthy company."
That changed her expression.
Good.
There.
Business answer.
She understood that one.
"If we wait another two years, valuation may be higher."
"Maybe."
"You're okay leaving upside?"
"Yes."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Why?"
There it was again.
Everyone kept asking why I did not want more of things I technically could have more of.
Because more was not automatically better.
I was learning.
Slowly.
Expensively.
"I don't want to spend two more years earning a higher multiple on a company I don't want to own."
She nodded once.
Then—
"Okay."
That was why I paid her.
We did not announce anything internally.
First—
valuation.
Buyer profile.
Sale structure.
Tax.
Legal.
Management retention.
Customer concentration.
Potential strategic buyers.
Private investors.
Competitors.
Packaging groups.
Manufacturers wanting capacity.
Not every buyer was good for the company.
That mattered.
I did not need Nova forever.
That did not mean I wanted to dump it on someone who would destroy it in six months.
Employees existed.
Managers existed.
Customers existed.
Responsibility did not disappear because I got bored.
Not bored.
Disinterested.
Different.
Probably.
We hired an advisor.
That phrase made me feel forty-seven.
He asked why I was selling.
I said—
"Portfolio fit."
He nodded.
Excellent.
Corporate translation for—
I fixed it and now I don't like owning it.
Useful language.
He reviewed the company.
Three years of operating history under us.
Improved EBITDA.
Lower scrap.
Better maintenance.
Customer diversification.
Newer equipment.
Cleaner working capital.
Better systems.
Stronger management.
Actual documentation.
He looked impressed.
"This is a very different company from what you bought."
"Yes."
"You timed this well."
I almost laughed.
No.
I did not time it well.
I spent three years and a lot of money learning what I should have asked before acquisition.
But outsiders liked clean narratives.
Buy low.
Fix.
Sell high.
Brilliant.
Very flattering.
Wrong lesson.
The buyer interest came faster than expected.
Because Nova was healthy now.
Of course.
Funny how businesses became attractive after someone else had already done the painful part.
One regional packaging manufacturer wanted capacity.
A private investor group wanted cash flow.
Another industrial company wanted Nova's customer base plus machinery.
One competitor wanted the assets but not the whole workforce.
No.
Rejected.
One buyer wanted to absorb production and close the site within a year.
Also no.
Not automatically evil.
Maybe efficient.
Still not what I wanted.
The strongest offer came from a mid-sized manufacturing group trying to expand into cosmetic and household plastic packaging.
They understood the business.
Had technical management.
Had existing resin procurement scale.
Could use Nova's site.
Wanted Engr. Paolo and the management team to stay.
Good.
Very good.
Before final negotiations, I told Engr. Paolo.
Private meeting.
He knew immediately something was wrong because I asked him to close the door.
"Ma'am?"
"I'm considering selling Nova."
Silence.
Long.
Then—
"Why?"
Same question.
"I think it belongs better with an owner who wants to keep growing in this industry."
He frowned.
"You don't?"
"No."
There.
Honest.
Not—
I'm reallocating capital.
Not—
portfolio optimization.
Just no.
He looked surprised.
Maybe hurt.
That mattered.
So I continued—
"That is not about the company failing."
"Okay."
"It's healthy."
"Yes."
"You and the team did that."
He looked down.
Good.
He deserved that.
"I don't want to keep pretending I want to build ten more years of polymer manufacturing."
He nodded slowly.
Then—
"Buyer?"
"Not final."
"Will we keep jobs?"
"That is one of my conditions."
He looked at me.
"Condition?"
"Yes."
"Meaning less money?"
"Potentially."
He stared.
I shrugged.
"I don't need every peso."
That sentence felt strange.
True.
Still strange.
Telling the wider management team went better than expected.
Not happy.
Obviously.
Nobody hears—
Company may be sold—
and immediately thinks—
Wonderful.
But because Nova was not distressed, the conversation felt different.
No panic closure.
No unpaid salaries.
No machines being hauled away overnight.
We had time.
We explained.
Potential strategic sale.
Operations continue.
Management continuity prioritized.
No immediate restructuring planned.
Questions.
A lot.
I answered what I could.
Did not promise what I could not.
That mattered.
Jane found out because I told her.
Voluntarily.
Growth.
We were at my condo.
Jane on the couch.
Chloe on the floor because apparently chairs were optional.
I said—
"I'm selling Nova."
Both looked up.
Jane blinked.
"The plastic monster?"
"Yes."
Chloe frowned.
"Something wrong?"
"No."
That was the beautiful part.
Nothing wrong.
Again.
But this time I knew that nothing being wrong did not mean I had to stay.
Interesting.
Audrey would have appreciated the irony.
Probably.
I did not say that.
Jane asked—
"Then why sell?"
"I don't want it."
She stared.
Then smiled.
Small.
"There."
"What?"
"That's the answer."
I looked at her.
She lifted one shoulder.
"You finally answered the actual question."
Rude.
Accurate.
Chloe asked—
"Are you losing money?"
"No."
"Will you lose money on the sale?"
"Probably not."
Jane immediately narrowed her eyes.
"Oh."
No.
I knew that face.
"No price questions."
"I didn't ask."
"You were about to."
"Maybe."
"No."
Chloe smiled.
"How much did you buy Nova for again?"
"I never told you."
"Exactly."
Jane pointed at me.
"Still classified?"
"Yes."
"Selling price classified too?"
"Yes."
She sighed.
"You're no fun."
"I invited you into my home and fed you."
"You ordered food."
"Still paid."
"Monster."
Better.
The negotiation took months.
Not because buyers disappeared.
Because I had become picky.
Price mattered.
Of course.
So did structure.
Cash at closing.
Working-capital adjustment.
Representations.
Employee continuity.
Management retention.
Customer transition.
Existing warranties.
Environmental responsibilities.
Equipment condition.
Tax.
Seller transition obligations.
I knew the other side thought I was difficult.
Correct.
I had earned the right.
Final sale price—
?31.5 million.
I stared at the number.
Then at the analysis.
After taxes.
Fees.
Advisory costs.
Transaction expenses.
Capital invested over the three-year turnaround.
Replacement machine.
Repairs.
Systems.
Working capital.
Everything.
Profit.
Real profit.
Good profit.
Not absurd.
But clearly positive.
On paper—
excellent acquisition.
Buy at ?18.8 million.
Improve operations.
Sell for ?31.5 million.
Very pretty.
Very easy to put into an article.
Terrible way to summarize what actually happened.
Because the sale price did not show:
Three years.
Attention.
Risk.
Meetings.
Travel.
Capital tied up.
Opportunity cost.
Stress.
Alternative investments not made.
Executive bandwidth consumed.
The fact that I disliked the industry enough afterward to feel relief at exit.
Numbers could prove a deal profitable.
They could not prove it was the best use of a life.
That was new.
The transaction closed on a Thursday.
I signed.
Again.
Different direction.
Buyer this time.
Not seller.
The documents were thick.
My hand hurt by the end.
Someone congratulated me.
Then someone else.
The advisor said—
"Fantastic outcome."
The buyer's CEO said—
"You built a strong platform."
The lawyer said—
"Clean deal."
CFO said—
"Very good return."
Everyone sounded pleased.
I was too.
Mostly.
Then I walked outside after closing.
Sat in the car.
And felt—
lighter.
Not richer.
Lighter.
There.
That told me more than the return calculation did.
The business press loved it.
Of course they did.
A small entrepreneur page wrote:
Young Founder Executes Successful Manufacturing Turnaround and Exit
I hated the title immediately.
Another article called it—
A Masterclass in Buying Undervalued Operations.
Absolutely not.
One interview request wanted me to explain my "turnaround formula."
No.
There was no formula.
Unless the formula was—
Spend three years discovering that being able to fix something does not mean you should have bought it.
Less inspiring.
Probably poor click-through rate.
Jane sent me a screenshot of one article.
Jane: MASTERCLASS DAW
Lia: Delete that.
Jane: brilliant turnaround queen
Lia: I will block you.
Jane: visionary
Lia: Jane.
Then—
Jane: proud of you though
I stopped.
There.
No joke.
Simple.
I typed—
Lia: Thanks.
Then she ruined it.
Jane: how much
I locked my phone.
Peace restored.
Family reacted similarly.
Ate Bianca—
"You sold?"
"Yes."
"At a profit?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Then—
"Did you like it?"
I stared.
She smiled.
Monster.
"I liked leaving."
She laughed.
"There."
Kuya Nathan asked what I would buy next.
I said nothing.
Mama heard that.
"No."
I looked at her.
"What?"