You never asked me what Next was or what I was doing there. You assumed it, and I let it happen.
“But why?”
The word sounded pathetic and incomprehensible.
“Why do you make me think? Why do you humiliate me like this?”
I leaned back in my chair and looked at him in the same way I looked hundreds of business opponents at conference tables.
‘Do you remember what you said when I told you I wanted to study computer science? I was sixteen. We were having dinner at that Italian restaurant on Main Street. You said that I wasn’t smart enough for a real science degree, that I would be better off focusing on something practical, like accountancy or nursing.’
He pulled a face.
I tried to protect you.
You said that technology was a men’s club and that I would never get in. You said that I was naive about how the world worked.
I paused. I let him echo his own words inside me.
Do you remember what you said when you were accepted into Stanford?
“Maya, I…”
You said it was a shame. That I would either fail or fail. That a public school would be better for me. You attacked me when I didn’t accept a scholarship. Your daughter has been admitted to one of the best universities in the world, and you were a mistake.
His face was now pale.
I was worried about the pressure.
You were afraid that I would embarrass you.
I stated it directly as a fact.
“When I dropped out of my studies after two years to found NextTech, you told everyone I was a failure. That I couldn’t do it. Typical Maya. I never finish anything. You used me as a warning during family dinners. Don’t let your children chase their dreams.”
I didn’t know you were building something. You never told me.
You never wanted to know.
The words sounded harsher than I intended. I took a deep breath. I regained my composure.
“Every time I came home, you interrupted me, rejected me, and made sure everyone knew that I was the disappointment and Brandon the success. You did exactly the same thing right in front of everyone during Thanksgiving, and you enjoyed it. I could see on him that you enjoyed it.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again. He could find no defense.
‘I let you think I was a failure,’ I continued, my voice dropping, ‘because your opinion of me hadn’t mattered for a long time. I didn’t need your recognition or approval. I built NextTech despite you, not thanks to you. So when I got the chance to take over Redstone, when I saw your name on their staff list, I felt a certain satisfaction, knowing that the truth would eventually come to light.’
You did it on purpose.
His voice sounded hollow.
You bought this company to take revenge.
“NOT.”
I shook my head.
“I bought the company because it was a good business decision. Redstone fits perfectly into our diversification strategy. The acquisition makes financial sense, regardless of who works there. But did I enjoy the irony? Absolutely. Did I deliberately schedule the announcement for the Monday after Thanksgiving so that the news would be heard worldwide? Absolutely.”
He maintained a word, but his shoulders slumped under the weight of the object.
“Performance reviews. Marcus Webb and his team will recommend my dismissal.”
They will make recommendations based on what the data confirm. I have not seen the final assessments yet.
It was a lie, but a strategic one. Let him believe that there is still uncertainty. That there is still hope.
“But you could protect it if you want to. You are the CEO. You could tell them that they have to keep it.”
‘I could do that,’ I agreed. ‘I could also order them to promote him, give him a raise, make him untouchable. I have the power to do that.’
A glimmer of hope flickered in his eyes, desperate and full of pity.
‘But I’m not going to do that,’ I decided. ‘Because I didn’t build a $12 billion company by making decisions based on nepotism or emotion. I built it by hiring the best people, eliminating the redundant, and running the company with ruthless efficiency. If you are valuable to Redstone, the numbers will show it. If not, they will show that too.’
Maya, please.
He bent forward and folded his hands together as if he were praying.
“I am 58. If I lose this job, who will hire me? I have worked at Redstone my entire career. I have a mortgage. Your mother’s car loan. Brandon’s old student debt that we helped him with.”
You have savings, Dad. You’ve been earning a six-figure salary for years.
His silence was answer enough.
No savings, or not enough. The same man who taught me what financial responsibility entails squandered three decades of stable income on a lifestyle he actually could not afford.
‘Brandon,’ she tried desperately. ‘What’s wrong with Brandon? He’s your brother, Maya. He’s expecting a baby with Jessica; his baby is on the way.’
‘Brandon is 27% less productive than the average manager in his position,’ I remembered. ‘He costs Redstone $94,000 a year, and—’
