The Deal That Fell Through

Gregory set down his pen after signing the last equity transfer agreement. The Huangpu River outside the window had lit up completely. Ships on the river dragged long wakes behind them, like silver lines drawn across black silk.

He put down his pen, rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a string pulled tight between his eyebrows. At forty-seven, the white hair at his temples could no longer be hidden—before, he would ask his stylist to call it “mature charm,” now he felt it was simply his body’s honest report on these years of overwork.

His personal secretary Nicole stood at the door, holding two cups of coffee—one for him, one for the person across from him. “Mr. Shen,” she said, giving a slight bow, setting the coffee on the mahogany coffee table, then quietly withdrawing.

The man sitting on the sofa was eight years younger than Gregory, wearing ordinary dark jeans and a gray T-shirt, with worn-edge Converse canvas shoes on his feet. This person had a prominent name in financial circles—Richard Shen, twenty-seven years old, self-made, who three months ago executed what could only be called a crazy operation, shorting the stock of three of Gregory’s subsidiaries. That day was October 17th, Gregory still remembered. Less than two hours after the market opened, his phone rang seventeen times. Eighteen banks withdrew their funding, six bond rating agencies downgraded their credit outlook. He sat on the office sofa for an entire sleepless night, and at dawn, called Richard Shen’s number, saying three words: Let’s meet. The other side replied with one word: Okay.

“Do you drink tea or coffee?” Gregory asked, even though the answer was obvious. Richard Shen across from him lifted the black coffee, took a sip, frowned, but said nothing. This person was like that—rarely spoke, but every word was like a nail, hammered into the core of the matter. Gregory opened his drawer, took out a crystal ashtray and a lighter, and lit a cigarette. This was one of his newly acquired bad habits—when anxious, he smoked; when stressed, he couldn’t sleep; when sleepless, he reviewed account books. The three things cycled, making up his basic life rhythm for the past five years.

“I don’t like what you’ve done.” He got straight to the point, his tone without anger, more like stating an unpleasant but necessary fact. “You’re smart, but you’re playing with fire.” Richard Shen looked up at him, the corner of his mouth showing an almost invisible curve. That wasn’t a smile, more like confirmation—confirming that the person in front of him wasn’t scared, confirming that this negotiation could officially begin.

“Mr. Gregory.” Richard Shen spoke, his voice much more mature than his appearance. “You’ve been a businessman your whole life, so you should know something better than I do: in business, there are no friends, only stakeholders. When I shorted your stock, it wasn’t because I hate you, but because the mispricing was too obvious. It’s like seeing a faucet leaking continuously—you won’t choose to ignore it, you’ll turn it off.”

Gregory was silent for a long time. Smoke rose from his fingertips, swirled in the air for a moment, then dissipated in the airflow from the air conditioning vent. He thought of twenty years ago, when he was also a young person like this, wearing a rented suit to negotiate his first business funding. The investor at that time sat in a leather sofa two sizes bigger than his, telling him in the same calm tone: Your idea is good, but you need to prove it to others—passion alone isn’t enough. At that time, he thought this meant “I need to make more money.” Now he knew, the real meaning was “You need to learn to control yourself.”

The negotiation lasted four hours. During which they never left the conference room, ordering a catering platter that they ate distractedly. The final agreement was simple: Gregory would transfer 51% of his new energy sector equity to Richard Shen’s investment fund at an agreed price, with the condition of retaining veto rights and nomination rights for core management personnel. In other words, he lost some control, but kept the most important piece.

After signing, the two shook hands. Richard Shen’s hand was cold, his palm full of sweat. Gregory noticed, but said nothing. He only said one sentence: “If you have any difficulties in the future, feel free to contact me. Not as a competitor.” Richard Shen stood up, pushed his chair back, the movement gentle unlike a young person who had just completed a billion-dollar deal. He walked to the door, looked back at the conference room filled with documents and contracts. On the wall hung a painting of shrimp by Qi Baishi, beautifully done, lifelike. He suddenly thought of someone—a person he hadn’t contacted in ten years.

When he walked out of that building, it was 1:30 AM. The city was terrifyingly quiet, streetlights casting his shadow long across the ground. He got into the back seat of the nanny car, and only at the moment the door closed did he allow himself to show an expression. It wasn’t a winner’s smile, nor a loser’s sigh. It was more like the exhausted but relieved expression that appears on a long-distance traveler’s face at the sight of the finish line.

The driver asked where to go, he said: Home. When these two words left his mouth, they carried a softness that surprised even himself.