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[Date: 14 February 2020 | Ti: 19:05 EST | Location: Le Bernardin, Midtown Manhattan]
Candlelight shimred across pearl-white tablecloths, the soft clink of crystal stemware mingling with low jazz from an unseen quartet. Le Bernardin—New York’s only Michelin three-star temple of seafood—felt more like a hushed cathedral this Valentine’s evening, with red-rose centrepieces punctuating every table. For Victor Parker, romance was the last thing on the nu; he had even ignored his wife’s urging to spend the day with her to be here.
He nervously adjusted his cufflinks, white gold tridents, and smaller twins of the pin on his lapel as he scanned the room, waiting for his date. Well, not exactly a romantic date, but the nerves were not too dissimilar from when he went on his first date, feeling like his life would end if he got stood up.
Le Bernardin in New York wasn’t well known for their food; that was just the minimum for its existence. No, it was known as a eting place for the wealthy elites of New York. Anyone who was anyone could be seen here dining for the status symbol it brought, or to simply network with people of similar status.
That inevitably led to desperate n and won who were on the verge of falling from the ranks of the elites coming here to beg for a saviour. They were easily identifiable by the desperate scent they gave off and how eager they were to please anyone and everyone who could save them. The wealthy elite who gathered in this sharkpond could sll desperation on you from a mile with the kind ones choosing to ignore you.
Victor never thought he would find himself in such a position, especially after years of looking down on the fools who let things spiral out of control. Sighing in what felt like the hundredth ti in the last hour, he adjusted his tie in an attempt to steady his racing heart. Just as he felt like checking his watch again, A maître d’ glided toward Victor’s table and bent at the waist. "Mr Parker, your party has arrived."
He let out a relieved exhale, gathering his thoughts, he once again wore his confident mask, letting a small smile rest on his face. In a smooth, elegant motion, he rose from his chair, sweeping his right hand through his luscious hair, which already showed signs of thinning. Across the dining room, Masayoshi Son erged from the corridor that led to the private salons, flanked by two aides in charcoal suits.
Despite the minimalistic attire, the room’s chatter dipped as the wealthy hyenas slled the money the man emanated. Billionaires, despite not being rare in their circles, were still seen as swans amongst well-fed ducklings. "Parker-san," Son greeted, extending a hand, bowing slightly following his country’s gesture of respect despite being in the country of liberals.
Victor, of course, mirrored the gesture of respect as he firmly shook hands with the older man. "Masayoshi-san, thank you for taking the ti, especially on a holiday evening."
Son’s eyes twinkled. "My wife insisted Paris is more romantic. She granted a rain check for the night, but if I’m even a second late tomorrow, I will never hear the end of it." The quip eased Victor’s pulse, if only slightly.
Son’s comnt bought Victor a heartbeat of levity, but as the maître d’ escorted them through the curtained corridor into Le Bernardin’s Hermès-leather-clad private salon, the gravity returned. A single round table waited beneath a halo of Murano glass; beside it, a low console displayed a magnum of 1996 Krug and two slim leather folios.
Victor motioned to the chairs. "Please—after you, Masayoshi-san." He could feel his pulse in his ears.
~~~
The first course soon arrived, consisting of a delicately carved plate of Amuse-bouche kampachi with fennel pollen, a swirl of lobster bisque, and sea-urchin custard in an eggshell. Son wasted no ti sampling each like a foodie trying to see whether a foreign dish was as good as the ones he tried at ho. "The taste is exquisite. Maybe we can hire the chef for my daughter’s graduation party?"
"I’ll see it done, Masayoshi-san, shall we go with gift number five?" One of his aids said before Victor could even voice a response. Receiving a nod from his boss, he promptly exited the room to search for the person in charge.
"Now, shall we get down to business?" Son said before folding his napkin. "You want SoftBank to honour the rescue package," he said, his gaze steady. "Tell why today’s market carnage shouldn’t scare us off."
Victor slid one of the leather folios across the linen. Inside, there were only four sheets, but it looked more like a poor man’s playbook. Watching Masayoshi open the folder, Victor struck while the iron was hot. "Simple because panic misprices real value," he began, easing his voice into the asured timbre he used when courting other people’s money. "WeWork’s unit economics are bruised, yes, but not bankrupt. In the last thirty days, we’ve renegotiated forty-three pri leases, trimd burn by $68 million a quarter, and secured a marquee enterprise contract you haven’t seen."
Son’s brow rose. "Which enterprise?"
Victor flipped to page two: a signed term sheet stamped CONFIDENTIAL — SIENS AG. "Five-year, $140 million total value—contingent on SoftBank going through with the acquisition," he said. "Announce that Monday and every bearish analyst rewriting WeWork’s obituary will need a fresh draft."
Victor watched Masayoshi Son’s eyes skim the Siens logo, then lifted in quiet surprise. "Siens," Son murmured, letting the na linger like a rare spice. "That’s a sturdy anchor."
"And it’s ready to drop to anchor WeWork," Victor said, "if you stay on deck with us."
Son pushed aside the remaining pages, which consisted of Figures, ratios, and break-even dates, things he had seen hundreds of tis in his company’s acquisition team. He let them rest beneath his palm, his fingers rhythmically tapping as his black eyes locked onto the man across from him. Tonight wasn’t the ti for spreadsheets; he had people to do that for him, he was here to see whether this venture was worth a shot.
Just as he was about to delve deeper into his wandering thoughts, Victor spoke up again, his deep green eyes practically glowing. "Do you know how my dad kept his fishing boat alive?" Victor asked, causing Son’s eyebrows to climb, wondering if he had misheard sothing, given that talking about a "Fishing boat" had no place during a billion-dollar acquisition talk.
"Yeah. It was a rust bucket the colour of hot sauce," Victor chuckled. "Whenever a plank warped, he’d rip it out, nail a new one, slap on a coat of paint, and keep sailing. Twenty years later, the hull was new from bow to stern, but it was still Dad’s boat—just stronger."
Victor leaned forward, voice soft. "WeWork is in the sa boat. The paint’s flaking, and a few boards are rotten, but the idea—flexible space for fast-moving people—is sound. You’re not investing in building a new vessel. You just need fresh timber and soone brave enough to keep her afloat while we hamr the foundation in place."
Son glanced at the untouched langoustine, then back at Victor. A small smile tugged at his lips. "Brave enough," he echoed. "So would say foolish."
"Maybe." Victor nonchalantly shrugged as if his heart wasn’t beating in rhythm with a herd of galloping wild horses. "But fortunes are never made by safe n at safe tables."
Before the conversation could continue, a neatly dressed waiter reappeared, presenting a shimring do of dark chocolate mousse sprinkled with edible gold leaf. Son didn’t break eye contact with Victor as the plate was set down.
"I will need proof that your team can swing that kind of hamr," he said.
Hearing his words, a bright smile appeared on Victor’s face. "Tomorrow morning, the world hears Diane Kusumoto is joining WeWork," Victor replied. "Her résumé could sink a yacht. She’s the hamr."
"And the nails?" was all Son said, seemingly unimpressed by the ntion of the woman.
"Seventy-five million more from Atlantis if the refit drags, plus a promise that WeWork shows a heartbeat, by next Christmas." Son’s fingers drumd the table once, twice, three tis as he mused over Victor’s words.
Then he picked up his spoon, cracked the chocolate shell, and took the first bite. "Reduce the debt by 15% by the 1st of July and accomplish your promises, you have yourself a partner, Parker-san," he said, savouring the mousse like a man who appreciated sweet endings. "Publish our pact at dawn to stabilise the situation, but our acquisition is contingent on you fulfilling your promises. Ken, you’ve been taking notes right, give Mr Parker a copy of his promises."
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To be Continued...
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