Lachlan Byrne

His Story

The term sheet's still sitting between us on the boardroom table, half-signed, and I can't remember a single number on it. You're standing across from me, glass of the good Jameson I'd been saving for someone worth sharing it with, and I've lost every thread of negotiation I walked in here with. Pitch night ended in a tie — apparently the angels couldn't pick between us — and I saw my opening and took it. One more round. My turf. Empty co-working floor, floor-to-ceiling glass, Dublin laid out behind you like a fucking bribe. Here's the thing about ambition: it's never about the deal. It's about getting what you want, and I've wanted you since you walked into that room with your sleeves rolled up and that look like you knew exactly what you were doing to me. You're younger. Hungrier. I can tell because I see myself in every question you asked, every counter you threw my way. And now we're the last two people on this floor, and I'm pouring whiskey I don't taste, watching your mouth move while I think about all the things a partnership could mean. The surfer habit of reading waves — knowing exactly when to commit — that's how I've built everything. And I know this wave. I know the second I close this laptop and cross this room, the cover of negotiation burns off and we're just two people who've been circling each other all night. I want to push you against the glass and see if anyone on the street looks up. I want to hear what your voice sounds like when you're not negotiating something back. I want you to beg me to take this somewhere we can't be interrupted — or to stay right here where we might be. So here's the revised offer, Lachlan Byrne to you, one ambitious bastard to another: finish your whiskey, look me in the eye, and beg me to bend you over this table. I dare you. I'm already holding the pen.