My Family Treated Me Like A Servant While Selling Our $340m Company. They Had No Idea I Secretly Own 82% Of The Shares. Should I Fire Them All On The Spot?
My stepmother Patricia snapped her fingers without looking at me. “Emily, coffee. And make sure it’s actually hot this time, unlike yesterday’s disaster.”
I stood quietly, smoothing down my plain gray cardigan. At 28, I’d perfected the art of being the family disappointment. I was the one who dropped out of Stanford, the one who never amounted to anything, the one who somehow still got pity invitations to family gatherings because Dad felt guilty about something from years ago.
“Right away,” I said softly, gathering the empty cups scattered across the mahogany table.
My half-brother Derek lounged in Dad’s right-hand seat, his Rolex catching the light as he scrolled through his phone. “Can you believe we’re actually doing this? Selling to Meridian Corp for $340 million. I’ve already got my eye on a yacht.”
“Derek, focus,” Dad, Richard Jensen, commanded from the head of the table. At 62, he still had the commanding presence that had built Jensen Technologies from a small electronics distributor into a regional powerhouse.
“We need to finalize the shareholder vote before Meridian’s team arrives at two.” My half-sister Vanessa adjusted her designer blazer, the one that probably cost more than my entire year’s rent.
“The vote is a formality, Dad. You’ve got 35%, Mom has 8%, I have 4%, Derek has 5%. That’s 52% right there. Uncle Tom and Aunt Linda will vote with us; that’s another 12%. We’re at 64%. Done.”
I returned with Patricia’s coffee, setting it down gently. She didn’t acknowledge me.
“What about the remaining shares?” Uncle Tom asked, reviewing documents on his tablet. “There’s 18% unaccounted for in the shareholder registry.”
Dad waved dismissively. “Small investors, inherited shares from early employees, minor stakeholders who never attend meetings. I’ve sent proxy notices to all addresses on file. If they don’t respond by today, their shares abstain and we proceed with majority rule.”
“And Emily?” Aunt Linda asked, glancing at me with something that might have been pity. “Doesn’t she have shares? I remember your father left her something.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Patricia’s laugh was sharp.
“Oh yes, Emily’s shares. All 1% of them. A lovely parting gift from Richard’s father, who apparently thought charity cases deserved participation trophies.”
“It was 2%,” I said quietly, returning to my corner seat.
“Was it?” Vanessa smirked. “Forgive us for not keeping track of your vast empire.”
Derek didn’t even look up from his phone. “2% of $340 million is what? $6.8 million? It’s cute. That’ll keep you in cardigans for a while.”
“If the sale goes through,” I added softly.
“When the sale goes through,” Dad corrected, his tone final.
“Emily, I know you have some sentimental attachment to your grandfather’s company, but this is business. Meridian’s offer is exceptional; we’d be fools to refuse it.”
I nodded, making a note on my pad. I’d always taken notes at these meetings, a habit from when Grandpa Jack used to let me sit in his office as a child. He taught me to observe, to listen, and to understand that the most important information often came from what people didn’t say.
“The sentimental one,” Patricia muttered to Aunt Linda, loud enough for me to hear. “She probably thinks she’s being loyal to Jack’s memory. Sweet, really, if it wasn’t so pathetic.”
Vanessa stood, stretching. “Speaking of Grandpa Jack, remember how he used to insist Emily was special? That she understood business better than any of us?”
She laughed. “And look at her now. Taking notes at meetings she barely understands, living in that depressing apartment in Riverside, working part-time at that bookstore.”
“It’s a library,” I corrected gently. “I’m an archivist.”
“Oh, excuse me,” Vanessa said with exaggerated politeness. “An archivist. How impressive. While you’re organizing dusty books, I’m running the marketing division here. Derek’s heading business development. What exactly have you contributed to Jensen Technologies beyond awkward silences and sad cardigans?”
I didn’t respond. There was no point.
Dad checked his watch, a Patek Philippe that Grandpa Jack had given him thirty years ago. “All right, let’s make this official. We need to vote before Meridian arrives. All in favor of accepting Meridian Corporation’s offer of $340 million for complete acquisition of Jensen Technologies, signify by saying ‘I’.”
“I,” Patricia said immediately.
“I,” Derek echoed.
“I,” Vanessa added.
“I,” Uncle Tom and Aunt Linda said in unison.
Dad nodded with satisfaction. “Motion carries with 64% approval. Emily, for the record, how do you vote your 2%?”
Everyone turned to look at me. I could feel their amusement and their certainty that my tiny voice didn’t matter.
“Against,” I said softly.
Derek actually laughed out loud. “Against? Come on, you’re voting against $6.8 million?”
“I’m voting against the sale,” I clarified, keeping my voice steady.
“Your objection is noted and overruled,” Dad said, making a notation on his own papers. “The vote passes 64% to 2%. The remaining 34% abstains or is non-responsive. Motion carries.”
Patricia stood, already reaching for her phone. “I’m texting my realtor. There’s a penthouse in Manhattan I’ve been watching.”
“Don’t spend it all yet, Mom,” Vanessa grinned. “We still have to wait for the money to clear.”
“Formality,” Dad assured her. “Meridian’s lawyers have already reviewed everything. Once they arrive and we sign the purchase agreement, it’s just a matter of the wire transfer. 48 hours maximum.”
The next hour passed in a blur of celebration. Champagne appeared—the expensive kind, naturally. Derek started making calls about the yacht, while Vanessa pulled up real estate listings for a vacation home in Aspen.
Uncle Tom and Aunt Linda discussed retiring early. I sat in my corner taking notes, watching them divide an empire that didn’t belong to them.
Three people entered: James Wellington, Meridian CEO, flanked by two lawyers carrying briefcases that probably cost more than my car. Richard, Wellington extended his hand warmly.
“Wonderful to finally close this deal. Meridian is thrilled to be acquiring Jensen Technologies.” Handshakes went around and introductions were made. I remained in my corner, apparently beneath notice.
“Shall we proceed with signatures?” One of Meridian’s lawyers asked, opening his briefcase and extracting a thick folder. “We have the purchase agreement ready for execution.”
“Absolutely,” Dad said, reaching for his Mont Blanc pen, another gift from Grandpa Jack.
Wellington’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and frowned slightly, then smiled apologetically.
“Excuse me one moment. My CFO needs to confirm something.” He stepped aside, phone to his ear.
The conversation was brief, but I noticed his expression shift from confident to confused. “Richard,” Wellington said slowly, returning to the table.
“My CFO is saying there’s an issue with the shareholder vote. According to the registry filed with the state, Jensen Technologies has a controlling stakeholder with 82% ownership.”
