Acquiring The Company

"A billion in estimated value is in the past. Stanton Corporation is only worth ten million right now," Dorian declared. He lounged on the leather sofa, pulling an unlit cigar from his tailored jacket. He rolled the expensive tobacco between his fingers, his cold gaze locked on the fuming general manager.

Victor slammed his palms on the mahogany desk, knocking over a crystal pen holder. "Security—"

Before the intercom button clicked, the office landline shrilled. A second later, Victor’s personal cell phone buzzed across the polished wood, vibrating hard against the desk. Both screens flashed with urgent, back-to-back alerts.

Victor scowled, his finger hovering over the intercom. He glanced at the screens. His breath hitched in his throat. Martin Lowell, the lead manager at Bancroft First Bank, was calling the landline. On his cell was Dexter Rowley—the terrifying Underground King of Bancroft, the man holding their two-hundred-million flagship contract.

A cold knot of dread formed in Victor’s stomach. He snatched up the cell phone, pasting on a desperate smile despite being alone.

"Mr. Rowley! What an honor. I—Wait, what do you mean? Drop the partnership? Have we done something to offend you, Mr. Rowley? We can fix this! Hello?"

The line went dead. A hollow dial tone buzzed against Victor’s ear.

His hand shook. Dexter Rowley was their ironclad guarantee. When Elena and Jaxon announced their engagement, competitors backed off out of fear, allowing the Stantons to secure that massive deal. Even with the powerful Blakely family severing other ties over the past few days, Victor felt secure. The Rowley contract was supposed to keep them afloat for the next two years. It was their lifeline.

Now it was gone. Without it, Stanton Corporation was a hollow shell of rusting factories and idle equipment.

The landline continued its shrill, demanding ring, grating against Victor's nerves.

Victor swallowed hard. He picked up the receiver, his voice cracking. "Mr. Lowell. Good morning. Yes, speaking. What? Repay the loan today? But we agreed to a six-month extension! We used the Rowley contract as collateral—Mr. Lowell, wait! We just need a few weeks!"

Click. Another dead line.

Victor stared at the black plastic receiver, his mouth hanging open. If Dexter Rowley’s cancellation cut their value by ten, the bank’s sudden demand was an instant death sentence. The Stantons had bled their liquid funds dry fighting off the Blakelys' recent attacks. Without the extension, they faced catastrophic bankruptcy. The bank would seize everything.

Dorian struck a match. The flame flared, illuminating his sharp features. He took a slow, aromatic puff of his cigar, letting the gray smoke curl toward the ceiling.

"Do you still think I'm blackmailing you?" Dorian asked. His voice was smooth as glass, carrying no pity. "I've changed my mind, though. The offer is now five million. It still isn't too late to sign... unless you want to lose your massive house, your luxury cars, and every last penny to the bank."

Victor’s knees buckled. He collapsed into his executive chair, his face drained of color. He pointed a trembling finger at the man on the sofa. "Did the Blakely family send you? Is this Arthur Blakely’s revenge?"

Dorian scoffed with piercing disdain. A sneer twisted his lips. "The Blakely family? Who are they compared to us?"

Victor had no moves left. Suing Dexter meant digging his own grave and inviting the Underground King's wrath. Fighting the bank meant immediate asset seizure. Left with zero alternatives to survive this financial apocalypse, the defeated general manager reached for his gold-plated pen. With shaking hands, he signed away his prized, billion-dollar enterprise for a mere five million.

Dorian inspected the signature, nodded, and folded the document into his jacket. "My boss will arrive in two days to take over. Prepare the handover procedures. The five million will hit your accounts once the handover finishes."

Dorian stood and headed for the door. He paused, looking over his shoulder. "Oh. Have that specific security guard escort me downstairs. The arrogant one."

The foolish guard puffed out his chest when Victor relayed the order. He half-jogged down the corridor to catch up with Dorian. This was his big break. The new owner’s right-hand man wanted his personal escort. He imagined a fat bonus, maybe even a promotion to head of security.

"Right this way, sir," the guard said, pressing the elevator button. He flashed an eager smile. "I run a tight ship around here. You need anything handled, you just let me know."

Dorian didn't say a word. He stepped into the glass elevator, staring straight ahead as they descended to the ground floor.

They crossed the marble lobby. The morning sun streamed through the revolving doors.

"Here we are, sir. Have a great day," the guard said, reaching out to shake Dorian’s hand.

Dorian moved in a blur. He clamped his hand around the guard's outstretched wrist and twisted. A sickening crunch echoed across the quiet lobby.

"Ahhh! My hand!" The guard collapsed to his knees, clutching his mangled wrist. Agonizing pain radiated up his arm. He shrieked, tears streaming down his face as he stared at his unnatural fingers.

Dorian looked down at the writhing man, his expression chilling. "Remember," Dorian said softly, delivering his warning, "we should never be ungrateful. Keep your hands off Ms. Stanton."

He turned and walked out the revolving doors, leaving the broken man sobbing on the marble floor.

Far to the north of Bancroft, in a lavish hotel suite, Arthur Blakely gripped his phone. The wealthiest man in the city was sweating through his bespoke silk shirt.

"What do you mean the Federal Tax Department is running a spot check?" Arthur barked, pacing the thick carpet. "It’s the weekend! Why didn't we get a heads-up?"

The voice on the other end trembled. "They just walked in, Mr. Blakely. Seized the servers. Locked down the accounting floor. They are tearing the place apart."

Arthur ended the call. A cold chill crept up his spine. In his position, he bought information. He always knew when audits were coming. A blind, sudden weekend raid meant someone with immense power had painted a target on his back. Someone way above his payroll.

He scrolled through his contacts and hit his son's number.

"Jax," Arthur demanded the second the line connected, a hint of panic in his voice. "Did anything happen at home? Did you offend anyone?"

"Dad! I was just about to call you," Jaxon whined. His voice dripped with misplaced arrogance. "Elena brought some stray dog over yesterday to call off our engagement. She humiliated our family in public!"

Arthur pressed two fingers to his throbbing temples. "Humiliated us? What did you do?"

"I handled it," Jaxon bragged. "I made a few calls. I severed almost all of Stanton's business partnerships in swift retaliation. They are bleeding out as we speak. Except for Dexter Rowley, nobody will touch them."

Arthur's chest tightened. Punishing the Stantons was one thing. But an unannounced federal raid on Blakely Industries? That wasn't the Stantons.

"The man Elena brought," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he pressed for the truth. "What was his name?"

"I don't know, Kaelen something?" Jaxon chewed on the name. "Yeah, he said his name was Kaelen Thorne. Some nobody."

Arthur stopped pacing. The world tilted on its axis. His blood pressure surged, and his heart hammered against his ribs as if trying to escape his chest. His vision blurred at the edges.

"Are you sure?" Arthur choked out. "Kaelen Thorne?"

"Yeah, that's it. Wait, how do you know him, Dad?"

Arthur roared through the phone. "You bastard! You've doomed us! You're in deep trouble this time!"

"Dad? What are you talking about?"

Arthur broke into a freezing cold sweat. The terrifying, apocalyptic realization hit him like a freight train. Kaelen Thorne. The legendary God of War. The man who could wipe the Blakely family off the map with a single gesture. They had provoked a monster.

"Listen to me and listen good," Arthur shouted, spittle flying from his lips. "Stay in the house! Do not move a single inch. I am flying back tonight. Tomorrow morning, we are going directly to the Stanton residence together. We are going to get on our knees and beg Ms. Stanton for forgiveness!"

"Apologize? To that cheating—"

"Shut your mouth!" Arthur screamed, knowing Kaelen would not spare them if provoked further. "Pass the phone to Gerard. Now!"

A moment later, the head butler’s calm voice came through. "Sir?"

"Gerard. Lock Jaxon in his room. Take his phone. Take his computer. Cut off the landline. Do not let him communicate with the outside world, and do not let him leave that room under any circumstances."

"Understood, sir."

Arthur hung up and slumped onto the edge of the bed. If Kaelen Thorne wanted them dead, they would be dead. Their only hope was groveling.

Back in Bancroft, Jaxon pounded his fists against his heavy oak bedroom door. "Gerard! Open this door! You can't do this! I'm the heir!"

He cursed and kicked the wood in frustration. His phone was gone. His tablet was gone. He couldn't even call a young model to keep him company. He was isolated, trapped, fuming over his father's bizarre, cowardly orders.

Across the city, the afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the busy streets. Kaelen Thorne coasted his simple bicycle along the designated lane, enjoying the crisp breeze. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled over, propping one foot on the curb, and answered.

"It's done, sir," Dorian reported, keeping his concise phone report brief. "The Stanton acquisition is settled. You own it for five million. I also handled the guard."

"Good work," Kaelen replied. He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

He pushed off the curb, pedaling at a leisurely pace. As he rounded the next corner, a massive, glittering building caught his eye. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows showcased rows of pristine, gleaming vehicles. It was a high-end luxury car exhibition.

Kaelen squeezed the handbrakes, bringing his bicycle to a sharp halt. The rubber tires squeaked against the pavement.

He rested his hands on the handlebars, staring at the polished metal and glowing headlights inside the showroom. He remembered his conversation with Gareth the previous day. Gareth had encouraged him to settle in, to treat his new family right, to buy something nice to mark his return to civilian life.

Elena had suffered enough. She had been bullied, stressed to the breaking point, and forced to ride in cheap taxis while carrying the weight of a dying company. She deserved better. She deserved the world.

Kaelen kicked the kickstand down. He parked his simple bicycle right in front of the sprawling dealership, sitting amidst a row of luxury sedans.

He dusted off his jacket, adjusted his cuffs, and walked confidently toward the sprawling glass doors. He pushed them open, stepping into the air-conditioned showroom.