Eye of the Storm (2)
Richard Sands—tall, with neatly slicked-back gray hair and intellectual glasses—radiated an intimidating presence from his very appearance. Of course it held no power over William, yet even that confident bearing was enough to grate on the Emperor of Napa.
William fastened the button of his tailored suit and lifted one corner of his mouth.
“Richard, you still have an uncanny nose for the vulgar scent of money. I figured you’d be staring at charts in your New York office.”
The two titans’ gazes collided in the empty air. To William Harlan, Richard Sands was the shameless capitalist who had carved out Napa’s heart—Robert Mondavi—with pure money. To Richard, William was simply another of his own kind, an old snob wrapping himself in the costume of a true wine lover.
“You’re just as quick to catch the scent of money yourself, playing the Emperor of Napa. I thought you only loved wine—now it’s brandy too? William, every time we talk I notice it more… that martyr cosplay of yours gets more refined with age. You act as if you’ve spent your whole life with dirt under your nails on this muddy ground.”
William’s brow twitched at the jab. Richard didn’t miss the opening; he smirked and stepped closer.
“Let’s be honest. Have you forgotten what you did before you came to Napa? You were a sharp real-estate speculator buying and selling San Francisco buildings. This grand fortress of Harlan Estate is nothing more than one more property in the portfolio you built with that speculative cash. And now you want to play the knight guarding the Holy Grail?”
Richard leaned in until his face nearly brushed William’s shoulder, voice dropping low.
“You sneer at me as a merchant, but we’re the same species. I’m transparent—inside and out. You’re the sly investor who wraps that dirty interior in aristocratic packaging and jacks up the price. To my ears, every time you intone the word terroir it’s just an elegant excuse for ‘premium real estate.’”
William studied Richard’s glittering eyes, then lifted one corner of his mouth again.
“Coming out swinging from the start… Ruby Quartz must have shaken you hard. That tempting, is it?”
This time Richard’s face stiffened slightly. William pressed the advantage, voice rising and falling with deliberate mockery.
“Swallowing Robert wasn’t enough—now you’re after some nameless kid’s brandy distillery? Constellation’s hunger never ends. And you, who should be in New York, personally deign to visit this backwater? This must be something I can’t afford to let slip.”
Faced with his rival’s venom, Richard merely shrugged and scanned the distillery interior.
“‘Swallow’ is a bit dramatic. I simply rescued a legacy that had fallen behind the times. Robert’s name rides our distribution network to the best shelves in grocery stores worldwide. Isn’t that the real way to preserve value—instead of letting it rot as the private toy of a privileged few the way you do?”
He adjusted his glasses and added,
“And this Ruby Quartz… after reading Food & Wine I understood why you’re in such a hurry. That kid’s brandy is opening New York buyers’ wallets faster than Harlan Estate Cabernet—the pride of Napa. It may be an insult to you, but to me it’s a golden goose.”
“Hmph. Typical low-rent merchant thinking. I can already see what you’d do if you bought this place: dilute the spirit like water, dump in artificial flavoring, and churn out something cheap like ‘Ruby Quartz Light.’ Exactly the way you shoved Mondavi wine onto convenience-store racks. Knowing that, do you really think the owner here would choose you?”
“Oh, William. Want to play aristocrat again? In front of me? Let’s be honest. You didn’t come to protect this spirit—you came to put it down. Before that monster Brian of Redwood can scramble Napa’s hierarchy, you mean to wipe the seed out completely… others might not see it, but I do.”
William’s brows twisted into an inverted V as heat surged through him—just as the distillery’s old iron door creaked open.
“Uh… the two gentlemen who said they’d come today?”
Jacob’s massive frame filled the doorway, yet his face still belonged unmistakably to a young man. Both titans turned their heads at once.
“That’s right.”
“Correct.”
“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Jacob Miller, owner of the distillery.”
He immediately swept an arm toward the building’s interior.
“Shall we talk inside?”
The distillery had been expanded not long ago and was larger and more polished than before, yet it still fell far short of the luxury either titan was accustomed to. Neither cared about the décor. Both knew exactly how valuable this place was.
“I already told both of you I have no intention of selling the distillery… but since you insisted on coming in person, I thought it best to schedule you at the same time.”
Jacob glanced between William and Richard, then continued carefully.
“Ruby Quartz hasn’t been out long, and growing this distillery still means something to me. Making and selling spirits on the floor is fun in itself—so I don’t really have a reason to sell. As far as I’m concerned…”
He was refusing as gently as he could out of consideration for the two men when William raised a hand—a clear gesture that he had heard enough.
William Harlan then ignored Richard Sands as if the man were an unwelcome trespasser on his own estate and fixed his gaze on Jacob across the desk. To William, the very fact that this barely twenty-five-year-old youth held a treasure of Napa felt like a kind of blasphemy.
Yet a man who understood business kept every trace of displeasure from his voice, speaking with warm, unhurried ease.
“Jacob, I hear you’re only twenty-five. Younger than my own son. You haven’t spent long in front of these old stills, yet after meeting that friend of yours—Brian—you’ve got your hands on a spirit that will shake Napa’s history. You’ve been handed luck most men never taste in a lifetime.”
“I think so too.”
Jacob nodded without resistance. William continued.
“But listen, young man. A great wave is not something a green sailor can ride. While you’re still drunk on Ruby Quartz’s success, invisible schemes, lawsuits, and pressure on distribution will already be closing in to swallow you whole.”
Watching Jacob flinch slightly, William looked straight into the young man’s eyes.
“I didn’t come simply to buy you out. Have you ever heard of Harlan Estate?”
“…Of course. Anyone who makes spirits knows Harlan Estate.”
“Naturally. Especially if your friend is Brian of Redwood… I’m offering you the chance to become part of our family. Do you understand what that means?”
“That is…”
“Yes, you might not fully grasp it. Your distillery joining our family means you would no longer be some nameless outlying distiller. You would enter history as Harlan’s youngest master distiller. What I’m offering isn’t mere cash. It’s the honor and permanence your family would enjoy for generations. Once you’re inside Harlan’s walls, no one would dare touch your reputation. Isn’t that the most perfect insurance a twenty-five-year-old could ask for?”
William’s proposal was lethal. In Napa Valley, stepping inside the walls of Harlan meant more than becoming rich—it meant joining the aristocracy of the liquor world.
At that moment Richard Sands, who had been listening quietly, gave a short laugh and adjusted his glasses.
“Honor… William, you still can’t leave that nineteenth-century English-noble playacting behind. Listen, Jacob. Honor doesn’t fill your bank account. And that Harlan label will only become a shackle that locks every scrap of your talent under William’s foot.”
Richard leaned forward, offering Jacob a friendly smile—the smile of a seasoned predator zeroing in on the softest spot.
“Jacob, I don’t want you spending your whole life polishing oak barrels in this cramped distillery. Constellation Brands is a giant with the world’s best distribution network. Partner with us and ‘Jacob’s Reserve’—bearing your name—will grace the duty-free shops of New York, London, and Tokyo. Have you ever imagined becoming the face of a global brand at twenty-five?”
Richard’s voice was pure honeyed temptation.
“If William sees you as a flower to decorate his castle walls, I intend to raise you as a lion that will rule the world spirits market. We’ll transfer a stake in our distribution network to you. You’ll sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Wall Street’s young billionaires without leaving your chair. This is both the exit of your life and a new beginning.”
Their persuasions were perfect. One stirred the primal hunger for social ascent; the other promised overwhelming capital and success. Jacob was only twenty-five. Money and prestige he could never touch even if he worked diligently his entire life were now crashing over him like a wave.
His shoulders trembled faintly; he swallowed hard. He had never imagined receiving such offers in his lifetime.
“…I’m truly grateful for both of your words. Offers like these to someone like me feel like a dream.”
Jacob exhaled deeply and bowed his head. A flicker of certain victory passed through both William’s and Richard’s eyes. Then Jacob’s next words shattered their arrogance in an instant.
“But unfortunately, I can’t sell this distillery. Or more precisely—even if I sold it, neither of you would gain a thing.”
William Harlan’s brow furrowed at the incomprehensible statement.
“Gain nothing? If price is the issue we can discuss it separately later—”
Even after mentioning forty-five million dollars over the phone, William was ready to go higher. Jacob shook his head.
“It isn’t about the price.”
He steadied his breath, then lifted his gaze and looked both titans straight in the eye. In place of hesitation, a rock-solid trust in someone else shone there.
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but this distillery isn’t one hundred percent mine. From the founding, my friend Brian’s winery—Redwood—has held a thirty-percent stake. That structure exists because we produce spirits from recipes we receive from Brian of Redwood.”
“But you hold seventy percent. If you decide to sell, the sale itself shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Correct. The sale itself isn’t the problem. But between Golden Grain Soju House and Redwood there is a Termination upon Change of Control clause. When Brian contracted with me, he stipulated that if ownership or management control of this distillery ever changes, every recipe and process technology he provided immediately becomes void.”
Behind his glasses, Richard Sands’s eyes stiffened for a fraction of a second.
“What…?”
“These walls and those tanks are mine, yes. But the core technology that makes Ruby Quartz—and the ownership of the recipes for The One and Peach Light—belongs not to me but to Brian. I was only granted the right to use that technology while I myself hold management control.”
Jacob opened a desk drawer, drew out a thick contract, and laid it on the table.
“According to the clauses in this contract, the moment I sell the distillery I become a man who can no longer make Ruby Quartz. Whichever of you acquires this factory will walk away with nothing but an old warehouse and empty tanks. Without Brian’s permission you couldn’t legally extract a single drop of cherry aroma.”
A chill silence settled over the office.
“Son of a bitch…”
A low curse slipped from Richard Sands’s lips.
A Change of Control clause. The sophisticated device normally used in corporate M&A to prevent key talent from walking away… how had a pair of kids in their twenties written it into a distillery contract?