Chapter 3

Randall's face flushed crimson.

He pointed a trembling finger at Winston, sputtering incoherently before choking on his own breath and collapsing backward.

"Mr. Carlisle!"

The surrounding executives scrambled to catch him as a wave of panic rippled through the conference room.

Dad slammed his palm onto the table, roaring, "That's enough!"

Winston reigned in his antics a fraction, though the contempt etched across his face didn't fade in the slightest.

He gave my dad a casual, incredibly half-hearted nod.

"Mr. Wentworth, I'm not here to waste your time," Winston said smoothly. "Our hedge fund's investment committee has run the numbers. According to your stock price, Wentworth Group won't survive past next year.

"If you sell right now, you can still walk away with three billion dollars. But once we deploy our short-sellers, I'm afraid you won't even be left with one billion.

"Furthermore, we've taken an interest in Wentworth Group's commercial plot in the south of the city. We intend to redevelop it into luxury residential real estate.

"And finally, I've heard excellent things about your software engineering division. We want a complete acqui-hire of that entire team—"

Before he could even finish his sentence, the conference room devolved into chaos.

A bottom-dollar acquisition, stealing our real estate, and poaching our technical team.

This wasn't a standard acquisition; this was a calculated corporate raid to liquidate Wentworth Group.

"This is outrageous!"

"Get out of here!"

"Derek, we can't roll over for this guy! We have to fight back!"

Over by Uncle Frederick's side of the table, several hot-headed shareholders were already past their breaking point, shouting over one another.

Winston sneered, "Fight back? Be my guest."

He shifted his gaze to Uncle Frederick, who was leading the outcry.

"I recognize you. You're the second son of the Wentworth family, correct? Three years ago, you spearheaded that commercial development project. How much did you end up burning? 200 million dollars? Or was it 300 million dollars?"

Frederick's face flushed deep crimson, looking like a man who had been kicked in the teeth. His fists clenched so tightly the veins bulged against his skin, yet he couldn't utter a word.

Winston turned his attention to another executive.

"And you're the marketing director, right? During Black Friday last year, how much did you dump into your ad spend? And what was your actual conversion rate? That pathetic single-digit growth didn't even cover your ad spend, did it?"

The director instantly lowered his head, embarrassment flickering across his face.

Winston's eyes swept across the long table. One by one, every single shareholder who had just been screaming sank back into their chairs.

The conference room plunged into an agonizing silence once more.

It was a heavy, suffocating silence born from humiliation and helplessness.

Standing in the corner, I watched the spectacle unfold.

These were supposed to be the elite minds of the Wentworth Group.

The financial team couldn't win a basic numbers argument, and the marketing division had its deepest failures exposed.

A room packed to the brim with seasoned corporate executives was being thoroughly browbeaten by a single Broadwell Street raider, and not one of them could even lift their chin.

Honestly, I was starting to get a little sleepy.

This scene was turning out to be far more embarrassing than I had anticipated.

It looked exactly like a group of grown men pinned into an alleyway by a street thug, getting kicked in the teeth, yet lacking the courage to make a sound.

Dad's chest rose and fell in heavy, ragged breaths.

I knew he was teetering on the edge of an explosive tirade, but he couldn't let it rip.

Because everything Winston was saying was a cold, hard fact.

Wentworth Group's performance metrics were on a downward slide, and this was the brutal reality of being the weaker player at the table.

Winston looked thoroughly pleased with the reaction he had received. He cleared his throat, preparing to drop even more outrageous terms onto the table.

"Since the room has gone quiet, I'll take that as a unanimous agreement," Winston droned on. "We also require—"

His voice buzzed in my ear like a persistent housefly.

I had fully intended to remain a completely quiet spectator today, but this particular fly was just getting far too loud.

I was genuinely annoyed now.

Inside the deathly quiet conference room, every single executive kept their eyes glued to the table. Nobody noticed me back in my blind spot.

And so, I moved.

I took a single step forward, walking out of the shadows of the corner and stepping directly into the light.