CHAPTER 12 — THE CEO'S RULES POV: Damian Blackwood

At nine fifteen, three people have disagreed with me, two have changed their positions, and one has asked for another ten minutes to reconsider an offer I already know he intends to accept.

I give him five.

Richard Hale, chief negotiator for Northstar Medical Systems, sits across the conference table, his hands folded over a thick pile of documents. He is in his late fifties, silver-haired, wearing an expensive watch and exuding the confidence of a man who has spent most of his career being told that his experience makes him indispensable.

It doesn't.

“The new terms are fair,” he says. “But my board will want assurances about the transition period.”

“Your board has your amended terms. The transition period is eighteen months. You keep operational control for the first six, and then our integration committee takes over.”

“And if it takes longer to integrate?”

“Then we’ll talk about why it’s taking longer. We are not going to negotiate against a theoretical problem before we have an actual one.”

His face hardens.

Adrian's eyes are on the document in front of him beside me. He has discovered that looking entertained while negotiating is a good way to make himself useful to nobody.

Hale flips a page.

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Blackwood.”

“I have a transparent one.”

“It makes a difference.”

Northstar has been seeking a buyer for months, someone willing to take on its pan-European distribution network without dismantling the company. Blackwood Industries needs that network to grow its medical technology division into markets where our competitors already have a foothold. We have the capital. We have the infrastructure. We have the leverage.

There’s no reason to pay over the odds.

Hale looks at his lawyer. They whisper something to each other, and then he looks back at me.

“We can accept the eighteen-month framework, as long as the employee-retention provisions stay in the agreement.”

“They will stay for the agreed period.”

“And no immediate restructuring?”

“No restructuring beyond what we’ve already discussed, at least for now.”

His eyes remain on me, waiting for a concession I haven't given.

I let the silence work.

He finally closes the folder.

“Then I think we have an agreement in principle.”

“Theoretically,” I repeat. “We’ll have our legal teams confirm the actual language before any public statement is made.”

He smiles as though we're just becoming friends.

We have not.

But when he offers me his hand, I take it.

The meeting ends with the usual polite exchanges, the scraping of chairs, and the quiet satisfaction of people who think they have won something. Hale departs with his lawyers. Our legal director walks them out to discuss the next steps.

Adrian remains.

“That went well.”

“That went as expected.”

“That's quite a celebration, coming from you.”

I straighten the papers.

“If you want a celebration, negotiate the acquisition. But don’t give away another fraction of our margin.”

“I’ll grab a cake.”

“Make it a small one.”

His mouth twitches. He takes the remaining documents, then stops.

“Your hospital appointment is still on the calendar.”

The subject change is quick enough to get on my nerves.

“Thanks. I can read my own calendar.”

“Thought you might have forgotten.”

“I haven't.”

“Your calendar suggests otherwise.”

I look up.

Adrian's face is blank, but I know him well enough to see the calculation behind it. He’s working out how far he can push me before he makes the conversation uncomfortable.

“Rearranging my life?” I ask.

“Trying to keep your work commitments from clashing with your medical ones.”

“The hospital is paid for by my professional commitments.”

“And the hospital wants to keep you healthy enough to keep paying for it.”

I put down my pen.

He looks at me without his usual effort to soften his words.

“I’d rather have an argument than that.”

“Move the internal review to Friday,” I tell him. “Leave the appointment where it is.”

“Done.”

“And quit talking about my medical schedule as if it were the whole executive floor.”

“Don't turn it into an executive scheduling problem, then.”

He leaves before I can reply.

Behind him, the door clicks softly shut.

I return to the windows. From this height, the city looks organised. Roads are intentional lines between buildings. Traffic flows in regulated streams. Each building has a purpose, each road has a destination.

It's a convenient illusion.

Blackwood Industries was my father's company, but the one he began is nothing like the organisation it has become. He started with a small engineering firm and the belief that good systems could solve expensive problems. Rather than chase every opportunity that promised a quick return, he grew methodically, buying complementary businesses and reinvesting profits.

Business was not a sentimental thing to him.

Neither is it to me.

But for him, the company was never just a bundle of assets. He knew the names of the men who had worked beside him for decades. He could recall the managers who had taken chances at times when the company could least afford them. He believed that if people had faith in the framework of their lives, they could do hard things without fearing every change.

I have maintained the structure.

The rest is harder to sustain.

My father had rules for everything. Don't sign what you haven't read. Never promise what you can't deliver. Don’t mistake loyalty for ability.

“Never let a personal relationship get in the way of a business decision.”

The last rule was the one he repeated most.

I thought it was because he'd seen what happened to powerful men who let their private lives interfere with their judgement. Now I realise he knew people hardly paid attention when an exception became a habit.

My phone buzzes on the desk.

Adrian's message.

Friday review confirmed. The hospital appointment is still the same.

I type a reply.

Good.

Then I delete it.

Thanks.

I stare at the word for a moment before sending it.

Courtesy is not a concession. There is no point in making it one.

But I find the exercise annoying.

I look down at the acquisition documents again. Northstar's forecast revenue is solid, but logistics costs have risen for three quarters in a row. The transition plan will require close oversight. If we handle the integration properly, this division could become one of our more lucrative operations within two years.

I start marking the sections that need further review.

Numbers don't behave like people do. They don’t care that I’m impatient, that I slept badly, or that a cardiologist says I need to lighten my schedule a little.

They sit in columns, follow formulas, and produce answers based on the information they've been given.

If the information is incomplete, the answer is incomplete.

I know that.

I just want to be the one who determines when the information is enough.

I attend the executive operations meeting at eleven. Department heads report on manufacturing, supply contracts, regional performance, and how the acquisition is likely to affect our cash position. I question, I challenge, and I refuse a proposal to fast-track growth before assessing what we already have.

“We don’t buy growth by pretending risk doesn’t exist,” I tell the room. “The risk is there. We price it, then decide whether the return is worth it.”

No one argues.

Two departments now have new deadlines, and the finance team has been asked to provide a more detailed integration forecast before the end of the week.

The afternoon follows the same pattern. Options. Addenda. Questions solved before they become problems.

I feel nearly normal.

And then my heart flutters, its rhythm turning briefly uneven.

My hand hovers above the keyboard.

I wait.

The feeling passes, leaving me with the familiar awareness of my own body and an unwelcome question about whether it will do what it's supposed to for the rest of the day.

I look at the clock.

Hospital appointment tomorrow morning.

For a moment, I consider calling the cardiology department to ask whether the latest results have come in. I need the information before I go into another meeting. I want something concrete enough to act on, something that will allow me to put the matter back in its proper place.

Instead, I open the notes I've been keeping.

Time. Circumstances. Duration. Other symptoms.

I record what happened, including the fact that it passed quickly. Then I follow Amelia’s instructions and consider whether anything about the episode warrants an immediate call to the medical team. I have no new warning signs, and the sensation has not returned. I decide to report it at tomorrow's appointment rather than dismiss it simply because it has passed.

It’s an irksomely sensible compromise.

I fold the note and return to work.

At four thirty, Adrian appears at my door, a tablet in one hand and a thin folder in the other.

“The preliminary integration forecast is finished,” he says. “Finance also has a matter that needs your approval.”

“Which one?”

He places the folder on my desk and turns the tablet to face me.

“Quarterly reconciliation for the infrastructure division. There’s a discrepancy between the authorised expenditure and what has been posted to the ledger.”

“How much?”

“Just shy of four hundred thousand dollars.”

I look at him.

“That's not a small difference.”

“No. Finance thinks it might be a timing issue involving two transfers and a late posting.”

“Have they checked the supporting documents?”

“They've requested the originals. Finance would like your approval to leave the reconciliation open until the documents arrive.”

“They can leave it open, of course. Nobody signs off on figures they can't support.”

Adrian nods.

“I'll tell them.”

“Once the documents arrive, if the discrepancy still exists, have internal audit review the entries. I want it in writing, not some verbal assurance from a clerk that it was a clerical mistake.”

“Understood.”

I check the summary and hand it back to him.

It's a routine control issue, for now. A large corporation makes thousands of transactions every week. If the records don't agree, even sound systems need to be checked. The purpose of an approval process is to catch mistakes before they become losses.

My father built the company on that basis.

And I plan to keep it that way.

Adrian slides the folder under his arm.

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Check when the original documents should arrive.”

“I'll get back to you.”

He reaches the door before I speak again.

“Adrian.”

He turns.

“If finance confirms that the discrepancy is an error, I want to know how it happened. If not, I want to know who approved it.”

His expression changes slightly. The instruction is not unusual, but the distinction is important.

“Make sure they understand.”

“I will.”

After he leaves, I return to the acquisition forecast.

The reconciliation should be simple. It will probably be taken care of by tomorrow, and I have bigger decisions to make before the week is over.

I have no reason to think otherwise.

But as I open the electronic version of the report, my attention catches on the name listed for the second transfer.

Victor Blackwood.

Right there beside the authorisation record is my uncle's name, exactly where I'd expect to see it on a transaction like this.

I study the entry for another moment, then close the report.

If there’s a problem, the records will tell me.

They always have.