His Calculated Proposal

Celeste Hale

“The final projection puts our Q4 losses at ninety two percent.”

The words hang in the sterile air of the boardroom. Ninety two percent. The number echoes in the cavernous space of my skull. It feels less like a statistic and more like a final sentence. Around the polished mahogany table, twelve faces, men my father has known for decades, turn to stone. Their expensive suits suddenly look like costumes for a play that has ended in tragedy.

“Ninety two?” Mr. Abernathy, our CFO, repeats the number as if tasting poison. His voice is a dry rasp. “Robert, that’s not just bad. That’s… that’s an extinction level event.”

My father, Robert Hale, sits at the head of the table. He looks like a king surveying a kingdom that has already burned to ash. His spine is ramrod straight, a habit from a lifetime of projecting unwavering authority. But I can see the tremor in the hand resting on a stack of useless papers. I see the tiny muscle twitching in his jaw. He is crumbling from the inside out.

“We are aware of the severity, Richard,” my father’s voice is low, a gravelly sound that fails to command the room. It just sounds tired. “The data breach was more catastrophic than we initially understood. They didn’t just steal the schematics for the Phoenix Project. They corrupted nearly a decade of our R and D.”

My project. My breath catches in my throat. I poured three years of my life into the Phoenix Project. It was supposed to be our future. A revolutionary energy storage solution that would have made Hale Innovations a household name again. Now it’s just another casualty.

“And Thorne Industries just happened to announce a strikingly similar project last week,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. All heads snap toward me. I am the only woman at this table. The only Hale besides my father. And, as always, the one they see as a footnote.

My father’s gaze flickers to me. It’s not angry. It’s weary. A look that says, ‘Not now, Celeste.’

“It’s a bit more than a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” I press on, my hands clenching into fists under the table. “Their launch timeline, their technical specifications. It’s a carbon copy of my initial proposal.”

“Celeste, this is not the time for unsubstantiated accusations,” Mr. Henderson, our lead counsel, interjects smoothly. He’s always been a master of saying nothing with perfect enunciation.

“Unsubstantiated? They poached our lead engineer six months ago. The same lead engineer who suddenly quit two days before the breach was discovered,” I fire back. The same lead engineer Julian Thorne took out for celebratory drinks the week he joined Thorne Industries.

The room falls into a heavy, suffocating silence. They all know. Of course they know. But admitting it means admitting they were outmaneuvered. That a twenty eight year old upstart, my arrogant ex boyfriend, had dismantled a fifty year legacy from the inside out.

“What are the banks saying?” Abernathy asks, turning back to my father, dismissing me completely.

“They’re calling in our loans,” my father admits, and the air goes out of the room. “All of them. We have thirty days to cover our debts or we begin liquidation proceedings.”

Thirty days. Thirty days until my grandfather’s company, my father’s life’s work, my entire future, is sold for parts. A wave of nausea rolls through me. I push my chair back and stand, my legs unsteady.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, not looking at anyone. I can feel their eyes on my back as I walk toward the door. The pity is worse than the anger. I can’t breathe. I just need to get out of this room.

The hallway is blessedly empty. I lean against the cool glass wall overlooking the city, my forehead pressed against the pane. Far below, the world moves on, tiny cars and people scurrying about their lives, completely unaware that mine has just ended. My phone buzzes in my pocket, a persistent, angry vibration against my leg.

I pull it out, my thumb hovering over the screen. It’s a number I deleted months ago but could never forget.

Julian.

My finger betrays me, tapping the notification. A single message.

*Heard the news. Looks like my new home is treating me better than my old one. Should’ve listened to me when I told you Phoenix was a pipe dream.*

A fresh wave of sickness crashes over me. Bile rises in my throat. He didn’t just steal my work. He didn’t just break my heart. He is dancing on the grave of my family’s legacy. He had called my designs brilliant, revolutionary. He whispered those words to me in bed, his hands tracing the lines of the blueprints spread across our sheets. It was all a lie. Every touch, every word. He was just mining me for information.

My grip on the phone tightens until my knuckles are white. I want to throw it against the wall, watch it shatter into a million pieces. I want to scream.

Instead, I take a shuddering breath and walk back into the boardroom. The meeting has devolved into quiet, panicked murmurs. My father is the only one who looks up when I enter. He looks a decade older than he did this morning.

“The meeting is over,” he announces, his voice final. The other men gather their things, avoiding our eyes, escaping the sinking ship as fast as their polished leather shoes can carry them. Soon, it is just the two of us left in the silent room, surrounded by ghosts.

“He texted me,” I say, my voice flat. “Julian.”

My father closes his eyes. A pained expression flits across his face. “Celeste, don’t.”

“He’s gloating,” I continue, the words tasting like ash. “He’s celebrating what he did to us. To you.”

“What’s done is done,” he says, finally looking at me. The defeat in his eyes is absolute. “We’ve lost. The banks are done with us. Our investors have vanished. There are no more moves to make.”

“There has to be something. Someone. Another company we can approach? A private equity firm?” My mind races, scrambling for a foothold in the landslide. This can’t be it. I refuse to let Julian win this completely.

“I’ve called everyone, Celeste. Everyone. No one will touch us. We’re toxic. Thorne Industries has made sure of that.” He sighs, a sound that seems to carry the weight of his entire life. “It’s over. Hale Innovations is finished.”

Finished. The word hangs between us. The end of everything. I think of the long nights in the lab, the thrill of a breakthrough, the pride on my grandfather’s face when I showed him my first prototype as a teenager. All of it, gone. Turned to dust by a man I once thought I loved.

We stand in silence for a long moment, the hum of the city outside the only sound. I am about to say something, anything to break the horrible finality of the moment, when the intercom on the conference phone chirps.

My father’s assistant’s voice, usually unflappably calm, sounds strained. “Mr. Hale? I apologize for the interruption, but there is a call for you. He was very insistent.”

“Take a message, Susan. I’m not speaking to anyone,” my father says, his voice ragged.

“Sir… it’s Caden Blackwood’s office.”

My father and I exchange a look of pure confusion. Caden Blackwood. The name is a legend. A myth. A corporate phantom who built a global empire out of nothing before he was thirty. He is notoriously reclusive, impossibly powerful, and ruthlessly cold. Blackwood Holdings doesn’t invest in failing tech companies. They acquire empires and dismantle competitors with terrifying efficiency. Why on earth would he be calling us?

“Put him through,” my father says, his brow furrowed. He presses the speaker button on the phone.

“Robert Hale speaking.”

A crisp, female voice, devoid of any warmth, comes through the speaker. “Mr. Hale. Please hold for Mr. Blackwood.”

We wait. The seconds stretch into an eternity. I hold my breath. Then, a new voice fills the room. It is deep, smooth, and colder than a winter storm.

“Mr. Hale.”

“Mr. Blackwood,” my father replies, a hint of his old authority returning. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

“I imagine it is,” the voice says. There is no preamble, no small talk. “I am aware of your current situation with Thorne Industries and your creditors.”

Of course he is. Caden Blackwood probably knows what I had for breakfast. The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

“We are managing the situation,” my father lies, the words sounding hollow even to me.

A low, humorless chuckle comes through the speaker. “Let’s not waste each other’s time with pleasantries, Robert. Your company has thirty days until it ceases to exist. You are out of options. You have no leverage. You have nothing.”

The brutal, unvarnished truth of it is like a slap in the face. I can see the color drain from my father’s cheeks.

“Why are you calling, Mr. Blackwood?” he asks, his voice tight.

“I am prepared to offer you a solution. I will absorb all of Hale Innovations’ debt. I will provide the capital to not only stabilize the company but to fund your next five years of research and development. I will personally ensure Thorne Industries pays for their transgression.”

I stare at the phone, my heart starting to pound. It’s too good to be true. It’s a miracle. A buyout, then. He’ll own the company, but at least it will survive. The name Hale will survive.

My father is clearly thinking the same thing. “And in return? What percentage of the company are you asking for?”

There is a pause. A beat of silence that feels charged with electricity.

“I am not interested in your company, Robert,” Caden Blackwood says, his voice dropping to an even colder, more deliberate tone.

My father is speechless. “Then… what is it you want?”

“Your daughter.”

I flinch as if I’ve been struck. My head snaps up, my eyes wide, locking with my father’s horrified gaze. Did I hear that correctly?

“I beg your pardon?” my father chokes out.

“The deal is simple,” Blackwood continues, completely unfazed. “I save your legacy. I destroy your enemies. And in return, Celeste Hale will become my wife.”

The world tilts on its axis. The air in my lungs turns to ice. This isn’t a business negotiation. This is something from another century. A barbaric trade.

“That’s insane,” my father sputters. “That’s… impossible. My daughter is not for sale.”

“Everything is for sale, Robert. It is simply a matter of price,” Blackwood says, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. “My offer is a one year contractual marriage. We will present a united front to the public for exactly three hundred and sixty five days. At the end of the term, we will part ways amicably. She will be free, and your company will be secure. Those are my terms. Non negotiable.”

A year. He wants to buy a year of my life. A year of me.

“Why?” I hear myself ask, the word a strangled whisper. “Why me? I’ve never even met you.”

The line is silent for a moment. I can almost picture him on the other end, a man made of shadows and steel, considering my question.

“Because you are the most valuable asset your father has,” Caden Blackwood says finally. His voice sends an inexplicable chill through me. “And because I have my reasons. You have twenty four hours to decide. After that, the offer is withdrawn, and I will stand by and watch Thorne Industries pick the bones of your family’s carcass clean.”

And with that, the line goes dead.

Silence descends on the room again, but this time it is a thousand times heavier. It’s a wild, impossible, insulting proposition. It’s also the only one we have.

My father stares at me, his face a mask of shock and shame. “Celeste, I… I would never…”

I hold up a hand to stop him, my mind a whirlwind of chaos. I see the boardroom, the faces of the men who dismissed me. I see my father’s broken expression. I see the blinking cursor on my phone, next to Julian’s smug, triumphant message.

He thought he had taken everything. He thought he had won.

A strange, cold resolve begins to crystallize in my chest. This isn’t just about saving the company anymore. This is about revenge. This is about survival.

I look from the dead phone on the table to my father’s desperate face.

“Tell me more about this contract.”