“At twelve she was on the verge of a major breakthrough. She’d sailed through the audition-phase of a nationally televised singing competition with a song her dad had written. America was going to love her.
“And then she was diagnosed with leukemia. Killed her in just a few months.”
There was genuine sorrow in Prescott’s tone, but Ryan couldn’t be sure if it was for the death of a child or the loss of a can’t-miss ticker symbol.
“How long have you known you were on the exchange?” Prescott asked.
“From day one. I watched you introduce me. I heard you describe my parents. And I saw you ring the opening bell that first day.”
Prescott nodded, more convinced than ever that Ryan was the only one who could succeed him. Keeping secrets — from everyone — was a vital part of his job.
“There’s one more thing I have to show you,” he said, walking over to his desk. He keyed a lengthy password into his computer and swiped his left index finger over a reader next to his keyboard. “Come on around,” he said to Ryan.
Ryan scanned the financial statement on the monitor. His bulging eyes stuck on the bold-type ten-digit balance at the bottom.
“As I was building this company,” Prescott said, making no specific reference to the numbers on the screen, “I knew the one thing I needed that I couldn’t come up with myself was capital. And not from banks. I never would have been able to manipulate the numbers to justify the risk to any bank. And I didn’t want to have to waste my time giving status updates to lenders.
“I had to sell my idea more to donors than investors. I pitched it as an idea to save an exceptional but declining America. And it was genuine. That has always been my vision.
“Never forget, the investors are important — we couldn’t survive without them — but the mission of this exchange is not to make the investors rich. It’s getting this country’s exceptional individuals back to realizing their full potential.”
Prescott paused from his soliloquy and turned to Ryan. “Do you know anyone more successful than Dillon was? Or Annamaria is? Or you are?”
Ryan kept conspicuously silent.
“About five years after I started building this company, the day arrived that I knew I would no longer have to worry about money. You’ve probably heard of Bill Gates’ and Warren Buffett’s ‘billionaire giving pledge?’”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “They convinced a bunch of billionaires to agree to give away most of their fortunes to a cause of their choice when they died.”
“Well, I met with dozens of billionaires before I finally stumbled upon a reclusive, probably somewhat jingoistic Texas oil tycoon in his late eighties, who thought my idea was worth throwing his money behind. He eventually vowed to leave 95% of his fortune — a little over ten billion dollars — to Avillage. And the money was given 100% at the discretion of the CEO. I wouldn’t accept it under any other condition.
“Whoever the next CEO is assumes full control of all those assets — roughly six billion dollars and, for the first time, rising. There won’t be any legal fight for it from my wife or my children. The money wasn’t given to James Prescott; it was given to the CEO of Avillage.
“I’ve been perpetuating a rumor, essentially by not denying it, that I’ll be leaving the company in the hands of one of my children. And in my opinion I am. If you’ll accept the offer.”
In the end it wasn’t the corporate mission or the money that led Ryan to accept Prescott’s offer. It wasn’t that he was all of a sudden convinced that Prescott was a genuinely good guy or that he wanted to grant a dying man the fulfillment of generativity over stagnation. It was something else — something Prescott had said just before Ryan left that evening.
Seeing that Ryan was still conflicted as they were preparing to part ways, Prescott had played his final card. “I’m sure at some point, you’ve probably wanted nothing more than to wipe this company I’ve built off the face of the earth. I can tell you with certainty that that could never be accomplished from the outside. It’s too well-rooted. We have legislators and judges at every level who not only invest but sit on the boards of several of our holdings.
“When I’m gone, Ryan, this company will be yours. Yes, I want you to see my vision, but I can’t make you share it. I trust your judgment. I trust that you’ll take Avillage in the direction it needs to go — whatever that may be.”
That had sealed it. The only dilemma left was how to break it to Annamaria that he couldn’t go with her.
While she’d been disappointed on a personal level, she realized he had a unique opportunity to make a much bigger impact by staying in New York. And Panama was her dream; her home. She’d left a week later with no warning and no goodbyes, halfway through a shoot.
They’d both been so busy, they’d only spoken briefly a couple of times since they’d parted. The certainty that they’d never be together full-time separated them more than the distance.
Now, two months out, as Ryan walked to work in the quiet of the pre-dawn, he allowed himself a moment to consider what his life might have been like if Prescott’s invitation had come a few days later. He probably never would have answered it.
But as things stood, the first “emancipated” holding in Avillage history was about to take over the reins for good.
For the first time since the building had opened, Prescott had failed to show up for work.
Ryan opened his email shortly after arriving at his desk at 6:15. An urgent message from James Prescott topped the list with the subject line “Succession.”
Dear Ryan,
I composed this email the day after you accepted my offer, and I scheduled it to be sent to you automatically the following morning at 6AM. Every morning since, I have manually delayed its release by 24 hours. Today, I was obviously unable to do that.
My life’s work is now in your hands. Remember the mission of Avillage that I shared with you. You WILL have to make major sacrifices and painful decisions. Never delegate those. And always make them in the best interest of the mission.
A letter is being sent later this morning to all Avillage employees informing them of the change of leadership, effective immediately. I will not be returning, even if I feel I’m able to, in the future. This company needs a strong, consistent, unquestioned leader.
And they have one.
I’m asking that you be the one to make the announcement public today by ringing the opening bell.
Make an impact.
A chill raced through Ryan’s body as he read the familiar final sentence of the email. More goosebumps followed when he realized the date was June 18th — exactly eleven years since he’d watched the opening of The Exchange, huddled in the electronics aisle of a Cleveland Wal-Mart.
The realization that this was happening — today — was nearly overwhelming. He looked back over the letter, his eye drawn to the middle of the letter: “You WILL have to make major sacrifices and painful decisions. Never delegate those.”
He leaned back in his chair, let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes, as Prescott’s words from two months earlier crept back into his head.
Let’s say I had. Would that change the fact that I’m offering you an immensely impactful job?
…There’s a reason you were the first IPO. It had to be you.