Hymn grips his phone tighter. “Stop calling me Arthur.”
“But if you have the surgery, Arthur?” I drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You spin it. You don't call it open heart surgery. You call it a ‘structural renovation of the executive engine.’”
Hymn listens. His nostrils flare.
“You issue a press release right now,” I say. “‘Mr. Hymn is undergoing a strategic, preventative procedure to ensure his longevity at the helm of HymnTech for the next twenty years.’”
I pause for effect.
“It shows foresight. It shows stability. It shows youplan to be around long enough to crush your enemies and dance on their graves. Doesn't that sound better, Arthur?”
Hymn blinks. The gears are turning. He hates that I’m using his name. He hates that I’m right.
“And the anesthesia?” he asks through gritted teeth. “I can't be offline.”
“Four hours of radio silence,” I shrug. “It’s a power move. It makes them wait. It makes them sweat. You go under, you come out, and you look like a god who cheated death. The stock will jump five points just on the rumour of your recovery.”
I hold out the consent form and a pen.
“Or,” I say, checking my watch again, “you can die right now. And your rival—what’s his name? The guy from Palo Alto?—he’ll probably buy your company for pennies on the dollar by Monday morning. I hear he’s already looking at your office furniture.”
Hymn stares at me. He stares at the pen.
He snatches the clipboard.
“I want the press release drafted by noon,” Hymn snaps, signing his name with a flourish. “And tell the surgeon I want the premium stitches. The IPO stitches.”
“I’ll tell him,” I promise.
I take the clipboard. “Good doing business with you, Arthur.”
“Get out,” Hymn growls.
I walk out.
Max and Welling are waiting in the hall. Welling’s mouth is slightly open.
“He signed?” Max asks, looking at the clipboard.
“He signed.” I hand Max the pen. “He thinks the surgery is a strategic pivot. Also, he wants the ‘IPO stitches.’ I don't know what those are, but just… use the blue thread. I have a feeling he likes blue.”
Welling stares at me. He adjusts his glasses, looking at me with a mixture of horror and delight.
“What did you say to him?” Welling asks. “I quoted Jung. I tried to establish a therapeutic alliance.”
“I quoted theWall Street Journal,” I say. “And I called him Arthur. About six times. He hated it. It established dominance.”
Max shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’re scary, Preston. You know that?”
“I’m effective,” I correct. “Enjoy the valve replacement, Max.”
I turn to Welling to say goodbye.
Welling is beaming. It is unsettling.
“Dr. York,” Welling says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “That was… an abomination. It was unethical, manipulative, and completely devoid of human warmth.”
He pauses, his smile widening.
