Page 20 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

I shake my head. “Blackwell has the capital and the grudge to swallow that cost. He’d see it as the price of revenge.”

“What about a white knight strategy?” Jonas suggests, rubbing his temples. “We could approach someone like Westfield or Nakamura Group to counter Blackwell’s bid.”

“Nakamura wouldn’t touch this with the current market volatility,” I respond, pacing the length of the conference room. “And Westfield has been eyeing our Chelsea properties for years. They’d use this as leverage to carve out pieces they want.”

Ella clasps her hands on the table. “Maybe a staggered board structure? Make it impossible for him to replace the entire board at once.”

“That requires shareholder approval,” I counter. “We’d need six weeks minimum to call the vote. Blackwell’s moving now.”

The director of our commercial division clears his throat. “What about leveraging our debt covenants? If we restructure certain holdings, we could trigger protective clauses.”

I consider this for a moment, then shake my head. “That would restrict our operational flexibility for years. We’d survive Blackwell only to slowly strangle ourselves.”

“A litigation strategy might buy us time,” another attorney suggests. “We could file regulatory complaints about his acquisitionmethods.”

“On what grounds?” I ask sharply.

“We could argue market manipulation based on the pattern of his shell companies’ purchases.”

“Not enough evidence,” Ella interjects before I can respond. “And litigation would signal weakness to the market. Our stock would plummet.”

I stop at the window, staring at my reflection superimposed over the city I’ve spent a lifetime conquering. Behind me, I can see my team watching, waiting for the solution they expect me to produce. It’s what I do: transform impossible situations into victories. But the weight of this one settles differently on my shoulders.

“What about a scorched earth approach?” I turn back to them. “We could divest key assets to friendly entities with buyback provisions. Make what Blackwell wants worthless until he retreats.”

The room falls silent. It’s a nuclear option, one that would preserve control but potentially devastate shareholder value in the short term.

Jonas meets my eyes, his expression grave. “That’s a last resort, Gideon. We’d face shareholder lawsuits for years.”

I press my palms against the cool mahogany table. “Keep it on the table. Sometimes survival requires sacrifice.”

For three more hours, we work through strategies. Employee stock ownership plans, golden parachutes for key executives to prevent defection, dual-class stock restructuring. Each option presents its own fatal flaw: too slow, too weak, too legally questionable, or too damaging to the company itself.

As evening descends, my security chief enters with new intelligence, his usual stoic expression tinged with what looks almost like concern.

“Sir, we’ve found what Blackwell is planning to exploit.”

He pulls up a document on the central display. It’s our company charter. A specific clause is highlighted: the deadlock provision.

“What am I looking at?” I demand, though the cold weight settling in my stomach tells me I already know.

Ella Winters, my lead counsel, steps forward. “It’s something we inherited when we acquired Meridian Properties. If certain voting thresholds can’t be achieved, a neutral third party gains temporary voting control to break the deadlock.”

“And Blackwell has been positioning his people to create exactly that scenario,” Jonas concludes.

“How did we miss this?” My voice is dangerously quiet.

“The provision was buried in subsection 17.3.8 of the charter’s appendix,” Ella says. “Blackwell must have had someone reviewing every document related to King Enterprises for months.”

I slam my fist on the table. “Find me a way out of this. Now.”

The team disperses. An hour later, Ella returns with Jonas and three other attorneys from our legal team.

“I think we’ve found something,” she says, her expression grave. “Though you’re not going to like it.”

“I’m already not liking any of this. Spit it out.”

She places a folder before me. “A Spousal Asset Protection Trust.”

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