Chapter 86: Forty Percent of Zero...

On the fortieth floor of the Sector Three Commercial Tower, the smell of expensive Cuban cigar smoke filled the air.

Four men in tailored suits sat around the long, polished conference table. Three of them were local merchant leaders who had been loyal to Lord Alistair Prescott for twenty years.

At the head of the table sat Harrison Blake, the senior managing director of the Eastern Horizon Capital Syndicate. Blake leaned back in Lord Alistair’s former high-backed leather chair, flicking ash onto a crystal tray with a smug grin on his face.

"Relax, gentlemen," Blake chuckled, adjusting his gold cufflinks. "Prescott was an old fool who got sloppy and went to prison. But a former delivery boy with lottery cash doesn’t know the first thing about running an industrial smelting empire. The moment he realizes those blast furnaces need our operating credit line and our Eastern flux reagents, he’ll crawl under this table on his hands and knees."

The other three merchant heads chuckled nervously, tapping their fountain pens against the documents in front of them.

DING.

The double frosted-glass doors of the boardroom slid open and every head at the table turned.

Evren walked in with his hands resting easily in his pockets.

He wasn’t wearing a stuffy suit or a stiff silk tie. Instead, he wore an unzipped dark bomber jacket over a fitted black t-shirt, dark cargo pants, and clean black sneakers.

He looked completely relaxed, as if he had just stepped out for a morning stroll rather than an emergency corporate takeover.

Walking half a step behind him was Amber. She looked radiant, dressed in a tailored ivory silk blouse, high-waisted navy trousers, and dark heels, carrying a slim leather folder. Director Mikay followed, carrying a red-sealed legal binder under his arm.

Blake’s smile widened. He took a slow drag of his cigar, eyeing Evren from head to toe.

"Chairman Evren," Blake said, not bothering to stand up. "Casual dress for a billion-dollar boardroom. I suppose you can take the boy out of the delivery uniform, but you can’t take the delivery habits out of the boy."

Amber’s eyes flashed with icy frost, but Evren merely smiled. He pulled out a leather chair opposite Blake, turned it around backward, and sat down, resting his forearms across the top rail.

"You must be Director Blake from the Eastern Syndicate," Evren said in an even voice. "I have seven minutes before I need to leave for the docks. Let’s make this quick."

Blake let out a dry laugh, sliding a thick, twenty-page legal contract across the table until it stopped in front of Evren.

"Then let’s get straight to business, Chairman," Blake said, tapping the document with his manicured finger. "Between me and these three local families, we own eighteen percent of the non-voting equity in Prescott Heavy Smelting. More importantly, our syndicate controls the one hundred and fifty million dollar revolving credit facility that covers daily payroll, and our Eastern quarries supply ninety percent of the specialized smelting flux that keeps your blast furnaces from cracking under heat."

Evren didn’t touch the paper. "And what are your terms?"

"Simple," Blake said smoothly. "We want stability. In exchange for keeping our credit line open and maintaining uninterrupted flux deliveries, we require two permanent executive board seats with full veto authority over smelting schedules, along with a guaranteed twenty percent cut of the conglomerate’s net monthly profit."

The three local merchant directors nodded in unison, folding their hands and puffing up their chests.

"Twenty percent," one of the merchant directors chimed in with a haughty sneer. "That’s a fair price to keep your new empire from freezing in the dark, Chairman. If you refuse to sign by noon, we invoke our Material Adverse Change clause. The credit line freezes, the flux shipments halt at the provincial border, and all three of your foundries will shut down cold within forty-eight hours."

Amber stepped forward. "You hold eighteen percent non-voting stock, yet you’re demanding veto power and twenty percent net profit? That is outright extortion."

"That’s business, Miss Sterling," Blake smirked, leaning back and blowing a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. "Your boyfriend may have deep pockets, but money can’t smelt ore without connections and supply chains. Without us, Apex owns three giant paperweights."

Evren tilted his head, looking at Blake with a thoughtful expression.

"Twenty percent," Evren murmured slowly. "Director Blake... gentlemen... don’t you think twenty percent is a little insulting for men of your vast experience?"

The room went completely quiet.

Blake’s cigar paused halfway to his mouth. He blinked, glancing at the three local merchants, who looked just as startled.

"What did you say?" Blake asked.

"I said twenty percent is too low," Evren said with an earnest, disarming smile. "You gentlemen supply the credit facility, you supply the flux, and you carry all that immense risk. How about thirty percent?"

A collective breath hitched across the table.

The merchant heads exchanged wide-eyed, greedy glances. Their fingers trembled with sudden excitement.

’He’s terrified,’ Blake thought, his heart racing with triumph. ’The kid knows he’s completely out of his depth! He’s practically begging us to stay!’

Blake cleared his throat, trying to suppress the massive grin spreading across his face.

"Well... thirty percent is certainly more respectful of our syndicate’s stature," Blake said, puffing out his chest. "Though with the current market volatility..."

"Why stop at thirty?" Evren interrupted smoothly, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "Let’s make it an even forty percent. And three permanent board seats instead of two. You take forty percent of all net profits, and we keep the furnaces running hot. What do you think?"

The three local directors were practically drooling. One of them nearly knocked over his water glass in his rush to nod.

Forty percent of the entire provincial smelting monopoly was enough to make their families wealthy for five generations.

Blake let out a booming laugh, slapping the table with his palm. He pulled a gold fountain pen from his breast pocket and pushed the contract closer to Evren.

"I knew you were a practical young man, Chairman Evren!" His eyes gleamed with greed. "Smart business is about knowing your limitations and leaning on experienced partners. We’ll amend the profit clause to forty percent right now, and I will personally authorize the credit line release before lunch!"

Evren looked down at the gold pen, then looked up into Blake’s smiling eyes.

A slow, cold chuckle escaped Evren’s throat.

The warmth on Evren’s face vanished in an instant, replaced by an expression of merciless amusement.

"Forty percent of zero is zero, Blake."