Page 35 of Bitter Rival

We were only three days away from closing. Three days.

Which just goes to show that nothing is a done deal until it’s been signed, sealed, and delivered.

“We have two options,” I say reluctantly. “We either have to find another buyer or we need to go with Plan B.”

At this point, neither option sounds appealing. Plan B—the plan we didn’t think we’d need—is to hire a new CEO so we can step down.

Grayson groans. “We worked on this deal for an entire year,” he says, his frustration bleeding through every word. “We don’t have that kind of time to do it again.”

He’s right. If we went down this road again, it could take another year to find the right buyer. If we even found the right buyer.

“We took it as far as we could,” he says. “We did everything we set out to do and more. We did a brilliant job of building something from nothing…”

What he’s not saying, what he doesn’t have to say, is that neither of us has the fintech operations experience to continue in the leadership role and drive the business forward. It’s a hard thing to admit, but it’s the truth.

If we were to stay on as CEOs, we’d be making promises we can’t keep, and ultimately, we’d end up driving the business into the ground.

On the flip side, if we hand over the reins to a veteran CEO and step down, we’ll have to leave the cash on the table.

Either way, we lose. But if we hire a new CEO, at least our reputation will remain intact. There’s no shame in stepping down. That’s just a natural progression for startup founders after scaling up. But destroying the business we built by letting our egos call the shots…that would be a huge fucking mistake.

Even so, I’m still leaning toward finding a new buyer.

“Mentally, I’ve already moved on. I’m ready to get out,” Grayson says, echoing my thoughts.

“Let’s touch base at the end of the day,” I say when it becomes clear that neither of us is prepared to make a decision yet.

He lets out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. I think we just need a minute to wrap our heads around this.”

This Royce Capital debacle was a crushing disappointment. To have come this far and to be so close only to have the rug pulled out from under us is a cruel twist of fate we never saw coming.

It’s going to take more than a minute to bounce back from this.

I hang up and drop into the leather chair in the corner, my eyes on the corniced ceiling.

My father’s words echo in my head. Technology? This won’t make you happy.

Fuck you, old man. I’m not giving up on technology. I’m just as determined as ever to launch a new startup. But now that this deal has fallen through, I’ll need this inheritance money even more.

I roll out my shoulders and try to shake it off but the pit in my stomach sinks lower. Maybe a five-mile run will help me clear my head and figure out the next logical step.

I walk out the front door just as a silver Mercedes pulls into the driveway. Harold steps out of the car, looking like Colonel Sanders in a white linen suit and straw fedora.

Harold is the executor of the will. He was also my father’s closest friend. And the very last person I want to see right now.

He ambles across the driveway with a fat cigar clenched between his teeth and claps me on the shoulder. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

“I’d love to stay and chat but I’m going for a run.” I make a move to leave but he tightens his grip on my shoulder.

“I’m afraid the run will have to wait.” His smile is pleasant, but I know better than to trust a shark in a rumpled suit. I very much doubt that this is a social call. “Now, where can we find Daisy?”

From his seat on the rattan sofa across from us, Harold is waxing poetic about God knows what while I’m trying to figure out what the fuck to do about our startup.

I tune back into the conversation when Harold starts tripping down memory lane, recounting stories about my father that paint him as a larger-than-life character with charm and charisma who was loved by all.

“I have better things to do than listen to you pontificating about my father,” I say. “He wasn’t a saint so let’s just stop pretending he was. Cut to the chase, Harold. Why are you here?”

His brows rise at my tone, and he takes a puff on his cigar, regarding me for a moment through the haze of smoke. I can already tell that whatever he’s about to say is something I won’t like, but he’s taking his own sweet time getting to the point.

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