A Hostile Bid in Watercolour

"The portfolio is stagnant," Tracey said, her voice cutting through the expensive silence. She didn't raise it. She didn't have to. Her words were scalpels. "Our Q3 returns on the European surrealism market were down four percent. Four. Percent. That is not just a dip, that is a failure of imagination."

She tapped a flawlessly manicured finger on the tablet embedded in the obsidian table. A holographic chart shimmered into existence above it, a waterfall of plummeting red lines. Tracey let the image hang there, an indictment.

Benji coughed, a dry, papery sound. He was a relic from the company's earlier days, back when they still pretended the 'arts council' part of their name meant something more than a tax dodge. "The market is volatile, Tracey. We knew the risks when we... invested... in the Dalí letters."

"The Dalí letters were your project, Benji," Tracey replied without looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the nervous young man at the far end of the table. "And it was a sentimental one. We are not a museum. We are a portfolio management firm with a cultural aesthetic. Our job is to acquire, leverage, and liquidate."

Johnny swallowed, his tie suddenly feeling like a garrotte. He was new to this level. He was the data guy, the analyst who’d built the predictive models that had gotten him this seat. He thought he'd be projecting market trends for canvasses and sculptures, not... this.

"Which brings me to my proposal," Tracey continued, swiping her tablet. The red graph was replaced by a single, grainy black-and-white photograph. It showed an old woman with wild grey hair, standing on a cliff edge, her face turned away from the camera. "The asset known as Bethany Allard."

Benji stiffened. "Bethany is not an asset. She's an artist. A recluse. We have a standing agreement not to interfere. It's the one shred of our old honour we have left."

"Honour doesn't appear on a balance sheet," Tracey said coolly. "Bethany Allard hasn't produced a new piece in a decade. Her existing works are the fine art equivalent of a blue-chip stock. Stable, but with low yield. However, her estate... her 'legacy'... is projected to be the single most profitable artistic event of the next fifty years."

Johnny felt a cold sickness in his stomach. He knew what she was talking about. He had run the numbers himself. He had written the report.

Project Nightingale

"The projections are... conclusive," Tracey said, gesturing towards Johnny. "Johnny, perhaps you could walk the board through your findings on Project Nightingale."

Johnny flinched at the project's codename. He wished he could disappear into the plush leather of his chair. All eyes turned to him. He cleared his throat. "The... uh... the model suggests that upon the artist's death, the value of her extant catalogue will increase by a factor of... approximately two thousand percent."

"Two thousand percent," Tracey repeated, letting the number settle. "And her unreleased works? The ones rumoured to be in her studio?"

"The valuation is... speculative," Johnny mumbled, staring at the table's reflection of his own pale face. "But potentially triple that. At minimum. She represents an untapped market worth, conservatively, nine figures."

Benji slammed a frail hand on the table. The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet room. "This is monstrous! You are talking about waiting for a woman to die! This is not what the founders intended!"

"The founders are dead," Tracey said, her voice flat and final. "And their intentions died with them. I am not proposing we wait, Benji. I am proposing we accelerate the timeline."

The silence that followed was absolute. The hum of the climate control seemed to fade away. Johnny felt the blood drain from his face. This wasn't in the report. He had modelled market reactions, not... this.

"Accelerate?" Benji whispered, his face ashen. "What in God's name are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting we acquire her," Tracey said. "Her studio, her works, her person. We put her under contract. An exclusive, lifetime contract. We control her environment, her health, her output. We 'curate' her final years to maximize shareholder value. We turn her legacy from a random event into a controlled demolition."

"You want to own her," Benji breathed, horrified. "To put one of the greatest living artists in a gilded cage."

"It's the most valuable cage in the world," Tracey corrected him. "And Johnny's psychological profile suggests she is uniquely vulnerable. No family, paranoid, distrustful of modern medicine. She's a portfolio risk. We would simply be... mitigating it."

She flicked another file onto the main holo-display. It was Johnny's work. A detailed breakdown of Bethany's habits, fears, and dependencies, all gleaned from illegally obtained medical records and long-range surveillance. He felt bile rise in his throat.

"This is a line we do not cross," Benji insisted, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and fear. "I will not be a party to this. I vote no. Emphatically no."

Tracey smiled, a thin, predatory curve of her lips. "The vote must be unanimous for a motion of this nature, as per the bylaws. Which is a shame. It would have been so much cleaner."

She made a small gesture. Her personal assistant, a silent figure by the door, placed a plain manila folder in front of Benji.

"What is this?" Benji asked.

"Your son's trading records from the Singapore exchange," Tracey said pleasantly. "The illegal ones. The ones that would not only bankrupt him but would also implicate you for providing the seed capital from a restricted account. The account we set up for the 'Arts Grant for Underprivileged Youth,' I believe."

Benji stared at the folder, his face collapsing. The fight went out of him, replaced by a grey, hollowed-out despair.

Tracey looked down the table. Her gaze fell on two other board members, who suddenly found the view of the London skyline intensely interesting.

"Any other objections?" she asked the room. No one spoke.

"Good." She turned her attention back to Johnny. He was sweating, his hands trembling under the table. "Johnny. You look unwell. Are you having second thoughts about your own data?"

Johnny looked from Tracey's cold, expectant face to Benji's broken one. He had just wanted a job. He was good with numbers. He hadn't known... he hadn't let himself think about what the numbers represented. A person. A life.

"I..." he started, his voice cracking. "The model... it's just a projection..."

"It's the projection that got you into this room," Tracey said, her voice dangerously soft. "And it's the one that will keep you here. Unless you'd prefer to go back to analysing pottery futures? Your choice. All in favour of Project Nightingale?"

Slowly, reluctantly, hands were raised around the table. Benji's was the last, a trembling, defeated gesture. Tracey didn't raise her own. She didn't need to. She just watched, her expression one of utter, placid victory.