Josh jabbed at the car stereo control button Monday morning, cranking it to the earsplitting volume he usually loved. He waited for the throbbing beat to course through him, underscoring the twisty drive to his office that launched his days.
The days he actually made it home from work, that was.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been away from work for four days. Sales calls and conferences pulled him away from his desk frequently, but never to the level of disengagement of this past weekend. Half of him wondered what sort of disasters lay waiting on his desk, even though he’d been up for three hours poring over accumulated emails.
The other half of him—a half he didn’t recognize—wanted to just keep driving. Take off down the highway in search of the quiet that had eluded him since the plane wheels touched down last night. He couldn’t have stopped living loud; loud was who he was. His whole life was music and noise. It was about being loud and large, about being headed for greatness and impossible to ignore.
Josh Tyler was a high-volume guy in every respect.
So why did the noise just jar and annoy him this morning?
Chalking it up to jet lag, Josh applied the effort it took to make the left turn into SymphoCync’s parking lot and told himself to enjoy the way the sun reflected off the building’s huge glass windows. He had six meetings today, the first of which started in twenty minutes. As he hit the lock button on his key fob, making the car chirp out a sound from its “J. Tyler, CEO” parking spot, Josh made a small version of his name sign with his left hand. Okay, Big Fish, time to hit the ground swimming.
The day’s meetings went by in an uninspiring blur. The next day’s presentation went fine, but Josh felt no zing of success when the new advertisers signed their two-year contract.
On Wednesday Matt sent back a proposal Josh had given him to review with a dozen corrections. Mistakes Josh should have caught. “Get your head in the game” was scrawled across the bottom of the last page in Matt’s all-caps handwriting.
On Thursday he snapped at his assistant for overbooking him in meetings. Overbooking. This from the guy for whom overbooking was usually standard operating mode.
Friday brought everything to a head, when Josh read an email from Hal Braddon, an important potential investor, about a deal they’d been working on for weeks. They were due to speak the next day at a weekend conference, but Braddon asked for a blisteringly early breakfast before the event began. At SymphoCync, not the hotel across town that was hosting the conference.
That was actually good news. Braddon was a high-profile investment capital magnate rich enough to buy tech companies for amusement if not for profit. The guy could say no any number of ways, or not respond at all. The fact that he wanted to meet privately told Josh the deal might be about to take a huge leap forward.
Josh slept in the office Friday night, working late and rising well before dawn to get ready for the monumental day ahead. It was still dark when the headlights of Hal Braddon’s sleek convertible appeared in front of the building and Josh went down to meet him at the door.
Braddon was one of those guys who managed to make a tailored shirt and a pair of jeans look like a power suit. He never wore a suit because he never needed to—his powerful reputation and the size of his empire preceded him into any room. This morning, Tyler guessed there wasn’t a single item of clothing or accessory on the man costing less than $200. Braddon’s watch alone probably could have bought out Bill Williams’s entire inventory. “I thought we’d go up to the rooftop terrace and watch the sun come up,” Josh said as he shook Braddon’s hand. “I’ve got coffee up there.”
“Really good coffee, I hope?”
“Decent enough.” The first rule in negotiations was to never look eager, to always look like you needed the deal less than the other guy. They rode the elevator up to the top floor just as the first pink streaks of sunrise were brightening the sky.
“Nice view,” Braddon said as they walked out onto the terrace that overlooked the landscaped hillside. Even in the pale light of the arriving day, the scenery was breathtaking. The gorgeous view was one of the reasons Josh had bought the building, and certainly the reason he’d put in the garden patio.
“Keeps my head on straight,” Josh replied. That wasn’t a line; there had been chaotic weeks where ten minutes up here in the quiet was the only thing keeping a lid on his sanity.
“This can be a crazy business, but I love the pace. Do you?”
“Parts of it. I could do with more sleep than I’m getting. It helps that SymphoCync is packed with great people.” It was. Personal music apps like SymphoCync weren’t especially new ideas—it was the brilliant people Josh had gathered around him who’d taken a basic idea and made it sing. No other app had the sophistication of preference algorithms and the ease of use paired with the ability to surprise a customer with a “new favorite” like SymphoCync did. People gave him lots of the credit—and he worked harder than anyone else on staff—but it was the “symphony” of all the engineers, designers and technicians that made the success.
“Maybe,” replied Braddon as he took the cup of coffee Josh offered. Normally Josh didn’t handle refreshments, but with the exception of the overnight tech support staff, the building was empty. “I prefer to think it’s the great leaders who make brilliance happen,” Braddon went on. “Good tech is only half the battle—you know that.” Braddon eased himself into one of the deck chairs with the grace of a man accustomed to having the upper hand in any room he entered. The fact that he could claim the upper hand, even on Josh’s turf, spoke to the considerable power he wore with ease. “I know that.”
“Takes a lot of capital to make brilliance keep happening, I know that,” Josh replied as he sat down himself. Despite being only in his forties, Braddon already owned two media companies—one in video, the other in entertainment news—and had built up an empire. Josh had been pitching him for months to come in as a silent partner and wield that empire—and its very deep pockets—on SymphoCync’s behalf.
“Well, I do believe we could do some pretty amazing things if we partner up.” Braddon crossed one foot over the other knee, leaning back. Josh thought if the man had a cigar, he would have taken the time to light it at a leisurely pace.
Josh sipped his own coffee, knowing better than to fill the silence the man was laying out before him. This wasn’t his first high-level negotiation. After a pause that felt entirely too long, Josh put down his cup and said, “You didn’t ask for this meeting to tell me you’re still thinking.”
Braddon chuckled. “No.”
So he had made a decision. Josh leaned in, ready to move things forward. “And a man like you doesn’t come clear across town before dawn to pass on a deal.” Anticipation buzzed like an electric current under his skin.
“I pick the people I do business with very carefully.” He leveled Josh with a fierce, unflinching look. “You and I, though, we’re cut from the same cloth. Strong ideas. Bold moves. We’re risk takers. I like you. I’ve already told you I want to work with you.” After a pause he repeated, “You. I do deals with people, not companies.”
How much longer were they going to dance around Braddon’s response? “Fair enough.”
After drinking his coffee to a remarkably unnerving dramatic effect, Braddon declared, “I’m here to make a counteroffer. I don’t want a silent partnership. I want to buy SymphoCync outright. For an obscene amount of money. You’ll never have to mess around with public offerings or venture capital, and I’ll probably approve whatever executive structure you want. But only in a full buyout.”
Josh took pains to hide his surprise. Sell SymphoCync? Could he really go that far, even if it got him what the company needed?
“I meant what I said—I back people, not companies. I’m backing you,” Braddon explained, “but I’ll back you as owner, not investor. That’s the offer I came ‘clear across town,’ as you say, to make.”
I wouldn’t own SymphoCync. The thought seemed impossible. Taking on Hal Braddon as a partner, a backer, was one thing. Reporting to him as boss? That was quite another.
“I get that you’re not a ‘work for someone else’ kind of guy,” Braddon continued. “And I know selling SymphoCync isn’t what we talked about. But I’ve decided it’s what I want. And I’m used to paying for what I want. Handsomely.” With that, Braddon pulled a single sheet of paper from the sleek leather portfolio he carried and spread it out on the table between them.
Josh stared at the number. For a drawn-out second, his mind went a thousand directions with what Braddon’s $240 million—million—could do.
“I’m about to make SymphoCync a legend, Tyler,” Braddon went on. “Think about it—with that kind of capital, there won’t be another company that can touch your market share.”
“Your market share,” Josh countered.
“Now don’t get petty. It’ll be our market share,” Braddon returned. “You retain full autonomy. It’ll still be your company in all the ways that matter. You still run the show.”
Josh heard his father’s voice: never forget, son, it’s the man who has the money who makes the rules. “What’s to say you don’t turn around and fire me the day after you take ownership?”
“I wouldn’t. As a matter of fact, I’m going to stipulate you stay on as CEO for four years minimum. I have no interest in running SymphoCync.”
“Just in owning it,” Josh shot back. Here he thought he’d landed the perfect deal to add assets for the growth SymphoCync needed, and he’d been outmaneuvered. He’d considered himself above a buyout. Even a multimillion-dollar one like this.
“Really, this can’t come as a total surprise,” Braddon said as he stood up.
Shame on me, Josh thought. “Let’s just say you’re living up to your reputation.”
Braddon laughed. “Good to hear. So now you’ve got my terms. You and I have a conference to attend in—” he checked the fancy watch “—two hours, so you know where to find me when you have an answer.” With that, Braddon headed off the terrace, but stopped for a moment to turn back. “You’ll still be the man who made SymphoCync, Josh. I’m not taking that away from you.”
Josh had a dozen responses brewing in his head, but the set of Braddon’s spine told Josh the man had said what he came to say. Any arguments would fall on deaf ears.
Deaf ears. He was going to have to stop thinking stuff like that.
He watched Braddon’s silhouette disappear through the door and be swallowed up in the gorgeous reflection of the sunshine that now bounced off the glass. How had this become the month of people setting off bombs in his life?
He had to reject Braddon’s arrogant offer. Didn’t he? He was Josh Tyler—he was the boss, the innovator—and SymphoCync was his.
Run, not own? The thought choked him. It was a dizzying amount of money. Jonah would need therapies and schooling and college and doctors...
The impossible contradiction that was his future had just managed to become twice as impossible.