It was supposed to be a perfectly pleasant Christmas, but the bad news just kept coming.
The day after Simon read the Rain Man script, he told Amy to secure full control of the project however she could. He gave her a rough outline of his reasons, and the two of them even brainstormed some negotiation tactics in advance.
Plans, however, rarely survive reality.
Simon hadn't expected United Artists chairman Tony Tomopoulos to suddenly demand to speak with him directly. All he could do was improvise.
A man doesn't climb to the top in Hollywood by being stupid. After the call, Amy rang the next day, but Tomopoulos used the holidays as an excuse to push talks until after Christmas—and insisted Simon had to show up in person.
Just like that, the whole thing was put on ice.
Then.
Amy had already locked in Robin Williams for Dead Poets Society at two million dollars—right before his breakout film Good Morning, Vietnam hit theaters. Williams's last three movies had averaged under fifteen million at the box office; two million was already generous. It kept the budget for Dead Poets comfortably under ten million.
Then that fell apart too.
They'd scheduled signing for the morning of December 24. At the last second, CAA got cold feet and said Robin needed more time. They'd get back to Daenerys after New Year's.
Everyone knew what that meant. If Good Morning, Vietnam exploded, Robin Williams would be A-list overnight. Five or six million wouldn't even get you in the door anymore. Insisting on him would blow the Dead Poets budget past fifteen million, easy.
And then.
A few days before Christmas, James Rebould flew to Chicago to meet Motorola chairman Robert Galvin about taking a board seat.
Of the twenty-six companies in the Westeros portfolio, Motorola had the highest market cap.
When Simon scooped up shares during the crash, the stock had already fallen forty percent from its peak, yet the company was still valued at over five billion. Westeros's 4.9% stake—about 2.5 million shares—had cost him roughly a quarter-billion dollars.
By close of trading on Christmas Eve, the stock had climbed from its crash low of $53 to $75.50. It hadn't reclaimed the pre-crash high of $87, but for an old-school communications giant that size, the rebound was impressive.
As the single biggest investment in the Westeros portfolio, the "Westerosos combo" had clearly played a major role in that recovery.
After more than half a century, Motorola had become a widely held public company with extremely dispersed ownership. Westeros's 4.9% made it the fifth-largest shareholder—more than enough to justify a board seat.
Lately, most of the twenty-six companies had been dragging their feet on the board-seat invitations. If a blue-chip like Motorola let a Westeros rep in, the others would find it a lot harder to keep saying no.
Rebould spent three full days cooling his heels in Schaumburg, the suburban town outside Chicago where Motorola was headquartered.
He never even got in the door.
The meeting had been confirmed. After three days of being ghosted, some staffer finally informed him that Chairman Robert Galvin had taken the family to Florida for the holidays. Rebould flew home empty-handed.
And that wasn't the end of it.
On Christmas Day itself, Motorola delivered Simon a little "Christmas present."
Robert Galvin—chairman and son of founder Paul Galvin—issued a statement through The New York Times, declaring in no uncertain terms that "Motorola is a socially responsible manufacturing company dedicated to excellence. Our board will never welcome a speculator."
After two months of silence from federal investigators—no probe, no charges—the media had started to lose interest. Then Westeros began pushing for board seats across its portfolio. On the surface things stayed calm, but plenty of people were watching closely behind the scenes.
Now old-money capital had openly fired a shot across the bow of this young upstart, and the press exploded all over again.
Westeros issued a rebuttal, of course, but the media had been waiting months for fresh blood. They weren't letting go. A perfectly good Christmas turned into a circus.
Manhattan.
Top-floor duplex, midtown Lexington Avenue.
This was the second property Janet had bought in recent months. Renovations on the Fifth Avenue penthouse would take half a year, and Simon refused to set foot in another hotel. So Janet snapped up this one instead.
The building was a fifties relic, sixty-nine stories tall, but the interior suited Simon's minimalist taste perfectly.
Six hundred square meters across two levels—less than a third the size of the Fifth Avenue place, but still spacious. Two living rooms, kitchen, five bedrooms, six baths, plus a study and private screening room. The upstairs master, over a hundred square meters by itself, looked out over half the city.
Pre-crash asking price: five million. Post-crash, all cash—Janet closed at 3.5 million. Simon knew from memory that a duplex like this would appreciate at least tenfold over the next thirty years.
December 26. Day after Christmas. Saturday.
They were due at the Reboulds' party that evening. In the walk-in closet, Janet—already in a wine-red evening gown—was carefully picking out a tie for him.
"What are you going to do about Motorola?" she asked.
Simon buttoned his tuxedo jacket in front of the mirror. "The rational move is to start selling the shares gradually—maximize profit. The irrational move is to dump everything at once and crash the stock right back to its Black Monday low."
Motorola had about 95 million shares outstanding. Westeros owned 4.7 million.
At Thursday's close of $75.50, the position was worth over $350 million. Ignoring capital gains tax, Simon had already made a cool hundred million in two months.
Janet settled on a pale-blue striped tie, walked over, and looped it around his neck herself. "You want to go irrational just once, don't you?"
"Yeah. They ruined a perfectly good Christmas. If I don't hit back, every other dinosaur will think they can take a swing." He nodded, sliding his hands around her slim waist, fingers brushing the silk of her gown. "If earning more money means I have to keep swallowing crap, weighing every word, compromising, pinching pennies—where's the fun in life? I plan to enjoy being rich, not become its slave."
Janet's eyes sparkled. She leaned in, pecked his lips, and kept tying the knot. "Once you cash out, what are you doing with the money?"
"So many things. Add to other positions, try to buy those two comic-book companies. In Hollywood I want to invest in tech firms that can push 3D animation and CGI forward, and set up my own effects house." He smiled down at her. "And us, of course. That island in Australia. The Manhattan tower. Oh, and feel free to buy more apartments around town. I like owning a lot of places. Doesn't have to be penthouses only. Trust me, the money will get spent."
Janet listened to him casually rattle off plans he'd never breathe a word of to anyone else, lips curving. "If you want a hundred apartments, we'll buy a hundred. But you hate renting them out, right? Empty houses rot, even with weekly cleaners. When I was little we had this estate outside London—beautiful castle. Too far from Australia, nobody ever went, and eventually it turned into a haunted wreck."
"I don't want to rent, but we can still put people in them."
"Hmm?"
"Pretty vases," he said with a smirk. "You know I'm not picky."
Janet rolled her eyes. "Like your ponytail assistant?"
"Jenny's not a vase."
"Mmm… hmph…" Janet stepped back to inspect the tie, nodded in satisfaction, then moved to the shoe cabinet. "I'm warning you—Dad's big on saving face, and he loves to hunt. Better not let the paparazzi catch you fooling around."
Simon sat down to wait for shoes. "Just vases. I'm not planning anything."
"Yeah, right," she teased, walking back with a pair of dress shoes. "Try these. We're running late. On the way we'll swing by Madison Avenue and look at those lots. There's nothing usable next to Fifth, but between 59th and 60th east of Madison is perfect. If we can buy all six of those low-rise, run-down apartment buildings, we'll have the site for Westeros Tower. I had it appraised—land plus buildings, including swapping out tenants, will run one to two hundred million. I already had Iceberg register a shell company in Australia for the purchases. You just write the checks."
Simon slipped on the shoes and raised an eyebrow. "You keep mentioning 'Iceberg.' Guy or girl?"
Janet rolled her eyes. "Girl." [TL/N: Her aunt.]
"Ah. Rare last name, Iceberg."
"It's not a last name—it's a nickname. She's always cold as ice, so—Iceberg."
Simon perked up. "Ice queen? My favorite type. Pretty?"
Janet shot him a look. "Prettier than me."
He missed the odd flicker in her expression. "Introduce me when you get a chance."
"Sure," Janet said sweetly. "But if you get any ideas, I'll take up hunting with Dad."
Simon made a mock-terrified face. "That ruthless? Who is she, anyway?"
"Veronica Johnston," Janet said. "Guess whose aunt that makes her, you little bastard?"
The surname clicked. Simon realized he'd just flirted with family and backpedaled fast. "Sorry, babe."
Janet slipped on her heels, took his arm, and headed out of the closet. "Veronica's my aunt—only ten years older than me. Our family isn't huge like the Kidmans. After great-grandfather, Grandpa was an only child, Dad was Grandpa's only son. Then when Grandpa was fifty-three he had Veronica—my oldest brother Anthony was already three. After Aunt Veronica came along, Mom had the four of us. Grandpa was thrilled; he said she was our family's lucky star, the start of prosperity."
They reached the foyer. Simon handed Janet her coat, put on his own, and grinned. "Stories like that always have a 'and then.' So—what happened then?"
Janet slipped the coat over her gown and gave him a look. "Then, many many years later, Janet Johnston met a little bastard, and the tragedy began. So sad. Fix my hair?"
Simon freed the golden strands trapped under her collar. She'd changed the subject; he let it go. "Tragedy? This is a fairy tale. Prince and princess live happily ever after."
Janet suddenly burst out laughing, like he'd tell a joke. "I've always thought there was something wrong with that line."
They stepped out; Simon locked the door. "Yeah?"
Janet took the keys from him and dropped them in her clutch, still smiling. "Think about it—prince, princess. Their parents should be the king and queen, right?"
Simon instantly saw where her filthy mind was going and adopted a righteous tone. "I have decided that for the next minute I am not speaking to a woman with such impure thoughts."
Janet snuggled up, looping her arm through his, voice turning soft and wheedling. "Honey, don't ignore little janet…"
Simon stayed stoically silent and tapped his watch.
Janet's eyes danced with mischief. Her voice dropped another octave, sticky-sweet. "Your Highness…"
Simon surrendered instantly. "Stop. I'll be the stable boy. Stable boys occasionally get to run off with princesses. Feels more accomplished that way."
"Hehe."