Chapter 17
Ophelia's POV
The next morning, the sunlight was just right.
I had just finished my morning workout when Chase handed me his phone.
On the screen were several photos, taken at some upscale hotel's signing ceremony. Michael was wearing a brand new suit, his face glowing red as he shook hands with an unfamiliar man, the smugness and wild joy on his face practically spilling out of the screen.
"He signed a letter of intent with Regal Investment Group," Chase's voice was as steady as ever. "Mr. Owens has also announced his entry into the new energy market with great fanfare, just as you instructed. To raise the first round of investment, Michael is selling off some of his scattered shares at rock-bottom prices."
I looked at Michael in the photos, his head turned by false prosperity, and a cold smile curved my lips.
Everything was unfolding according to my script.
"Good." I looked away. "Let him enjoy himself for a few more days. In a game of cat and mouse, if the mouse dies too quickly, there's no fun in it."
Building him up before destroying him—that was the best way to deal with someone like him.
I wanted to let him climb high, let him think he'd grabbed a lifeline and could trample me underfoot again, and then personally cut the rope he was climbing on, letting him fall hard from the clouds, smashed to pieces.
With Michael handled, I threw all my energy into the mess Preston had dumped on me.
That new media subsidiary StoryArc Media—calling it a company was generous. It was more like a money pit.
I spent an entire day studying the financial reports and project materials, my frown deepening with every page.
Chaotic accounts, bloated staff, and a completely unclear business direction—like a broken ship crashing around aimlessly.
What Preston threw at me wasn't some money-maker, but a poisoned blade.
Preston was certain I couldn't turn it around in three months and wanted to use this to kick me out of the White Group's power center for good.
Late at night, I closed the thick file, rubbed my throbbing temples, and for the first time felt a sense of helplessness.
When it came to business strategy and capital operations, I was still a novice after all.
After much thought, I picked up my phone and called Benjamin.
Asking for his help was my only option.
The call connected quickly. It was quiet on his end, only his low, magnetic voice: "It's so late, still not asleep?"
"Mr. Wilson," I got straight to the point. "I've run into some trouble and need the professional opinion of a top investor like yourself."
A soft laugh came from the other end, tinged with understanding. "I'll send you the address. Come over."
By the time the car pulled into Azure Ridge Villa, where Benjamin lived, it was already late at night.
Benjamin wasn't waiting for me at the entrance. Only a floor lamp was left on in the living room, its warm orange glow dispelling the chill of the late night.
He wore a dark gray silk robe, the collar slightly open, revealing his sharply defined collarbones. Gone was some of his business world sharpness, replaced by a languid sensuality.
He sat at the bar, a laptop in front of him, his slender fingers tapping lightly on the keyboard.
Hearing my footsteps, he looked up, his gaze landing on my slightly tired face, then patted the high stool beside him.
I handed him the headache-inducing StoryArc Media materials and explained the situation briefly.
He didn't look at them right away. Instead, he stood up, took a bottle of milk from the wine cabinet, poured it into a cup, and put it in the microwave to heat.
"Warm your stomach first," he pushed the warm milk toward me, then picked up the file. "Then tell me about your troubles."
I held the warm cup, watching his focused profile, something stirring in my heart.
Benjamin flipped through the materials quickly, practically speed-reading, but he didn't miss any key points.
What seemed like a tangled mess of accounts and projects to me appeared clear and organized to him.
"The problem isn't the business, it's the people." He closed the file, hitting the nail on the head. "From top management to the grassroots, this company is full of people your father planted there. What they want isn't performance, it's stability. Even if you come up with the best plan, they won't cooperate—they'll become your biggest obstacle."
He looked up at me, his deep eyes startlingly bright under the light. "So the first step isn't finding new projects, it's replacing people."
"But these people are all veteran employees. It affects everything. Firing them rashly would cause huge upheaval." I voiced my concerns.
"Who said anything about firing them?" Benjamin's lips curved slightly, revealing a fox-like smile. "Set up a new project team, recruit elite talent from inside and outside the company, offer them high salaries and stock options. Transfer all core business to the new project team, leave those people on the sidelines, pay them basic wages, and let them get so uncomfortable they quit on their own."
Pulling the rug out from under them.
Simple and brutal, but most effective.
I looked at him, having to admit that Benjamin's thinking was always a step ahead of mine, and more ruthless too.
He seemed satisfied with the flash of shock and admiration in my eyes. Leaning forward slightly, he tapped a spot in the plan with his fingertip. "As for new projects, isn't there a ready-made one right here?"
I followed his finger. It was a short video social platform proposal that previous executives had deemed worthless and abandoned long ago.
"This platform... has already missed its window."
"Windows aren't waited for, they're created." Benjamin's eyes gleamed with ambitious light. "Current short video platforms have severely homogenized content, and users are getting fatigued. We can go against the grain—focus on high-quality, knowledge-based paid content and elite social networking. Turn the platform into an online club where your content value is your entry ticket."
His words were like lightning, instantly cutting through the fog in my mind.
I seemed to see a completely new path full of infinite possibilities.
"I understand." I let out a long breath; the frustration and pressure of recent days swept away, replaced by irrepressible excitement.
"Want to thank me?" He leaned back in his chair, looking at me leisurely, his tone playful.
"What kind of thanks does Mr. Wilson want?" I met his gaze and asked frankly.
His eyes lingered on my face for a few seconds, then he suddenly laughed softly and shook his head. "Not this time. Consider it... a free performance upgrade for my investment."
Investment again.
Right, he and I were just business partners.
I suppressed the inexplicable flutter in my heart and stood up. "Thank you for your guidance, Mr. Wilson. It's late, I won't disturb you further."
Benjamin didn't ask me to stay. As I turned to leave, he said casually, "The road's not easy. Watch your step."
I didn't know if he meant the road beneath my feet or the road ahead of me.
Sitting in the car on the way back, I leaned against the seat, my mind still replaying Benjamin's words over and over.