Page 12 of The Wrong Billionaire
However, his wife is sick. He’s close to retirement age anyway. He wants to make sure his family is secure and leave his children a legacy he can be proud of. From a purely personal level, it would make perfect sense to sell.
But if Tom Rutherford buys this company, the Ashford name will disappear within a year.
“You’re not thinking of selling,” Caesar says bluntly.
Dad thinks for a moment. “I want the company to remain in the family,” he says eventually. “But I met with the independent directors to ask their advice and garner their opinions. I wanted honest feedback before I spoke to you.” He looks across at the man sitting closest to him.
Sir Malcolm Reid is the CEO of one of the biggest banks in New Zealand, with a sound understanding of the country’s economy. He clears his throat and looks at the three of us. “The board has concerns about succession.”
Our eyebrows all rise. “Succession?” I repeat.
“Investors need confidence in the leadership transition,” adds Caroline Bennett, an agritech investor. “The company depends heavily on the Ashford brand, and investors will want reassurance about leadership continuity.”
“You’re all incredibly talented,” says Hemi Te Rangi, a large dairy industry leader. “But the board needs to see long-term stability before it rejects a serious acquisition offer.”
Dad sighs and leans back in his chair, visibly less stressed now the Rutherford cat is out of its sleeping bag. “None of you is settled,” he says, “or even close to being, as far as I know. You’re thirty-three,” he reminds Caesar. “I was married and had three children by your age. You’re a hard worker and you couldrun this company while you’re asleep, but you’re unreliable, son. Easily distracted. Unfocused. And it shows.”
Caesar glowers, but he doesn’t say anything because it’s hard to argue with the truth.
“And you can wipe that smirk off your face,” Dad says to me. “You’re twenty-eight and photographed with a different woman every week. You’re innovative and a true visionary, but you like to act the playboy, and it’s irresponsible when you’re in the public eye so much. I’d hardly call you an exemplary role model.”
I drop my gaze to the table, embarrassed to be scolded like that in front of the rest of the board as if I’m the son of an English earl who’s been caught making out with the governess. But I’m unable to think of a comeback when he’s only laying out the facts.
“And you’re the youngest,” Dad says to Aurelia. His expression softens. “And my little girl. But your mother was married and had Caesar by your age. You do an amazing job controlling the company’s public face, and I don’t expect you to be a nun. But life isn’t just one big party.”
She blushes scarlet and swallows hard, shocked by his honest assessment.
The terrible thing is, we all know he’s right.
His direct gaze takes all three of us in. “I’ve let you lead your own lives in the hope that you’ll all find your way eventually. But, understandably, the board wants continuity of leadership. Marriage. Heirs. I know it sounds medieval, but it’s the price you’re going to have to pay for what we’ve built here. We have a responsibility to our investors and our employees. So, the fact is, if you want to keep Ashford AgriTech in the family, the board needs proof the next generation is committed to its future.”
Silence falls. I think the other two, like me, are completely shocked.
“These things don’t happen overnight,” Dad says. “Tom Rutherford told me the offer will stay open until my retirement. So I’d like to put forward a proposal. I’ll stay until my sixtieth birthday—December the first, next year. If, by that point, none of you has married and produced an heir, I sell the company to him.” He closes his laptop. “Right, I have another meeting to go to. Malcolm, Hemi, Caroline, have a great Christmas.”
“You too,” they say, getting to their feet and packing up their things.
“And you three,” he gestures at the rest of us who are still sitting at the table, and looks pointedly at Caesar, “don’t be late on Christmas Day. No stressing your mother out.”
“Yes, sir,” Caesar says, and Aurelia and I nod our agreement.
Dad walks out of the office, the three independent directors following in his wake, and the door swings shut.
The three of us stare at each other.
“Fuck,” I say.
Caesar shakes his head and looks out of the window. “What a bomb to drop right before Christmas.”
I get up, the chair scraping along the polished floorboards, and go over to the table to get myself a coffee. I need something stronger, but somehow I don’t think pouring a whiskey at ten a.m. is what my father had in mind when he used the words ‘responsible’ and ‘reliable’.
I bring it back to the table and sit again, stretching out my legs. “Do you think Rutherford’s offer was real?”
Caesar frowns. “What do you mean? You think Dad made it up? What, to force us to face our future?”
“It’s real,” Aurelia says. “Dad definitely met with Tom Rutherford. I saw it on Rebecca’s calendar.” That’s his PA.
“He wouldn’t really sell to that arsehole, would he?” Fury rises within me. Rutherford is in his seventies, with six sons, three daughters, and about five hundred grandchildren. He thinks of himself as if he’s the head of the Italian Mafia, probably because he is one of the most powerful men in the country. The thought of Ashford AgriTech falling into his hands makes bile rise up into my throat.
