I pull up in front of my building and throw my keys to the valet.

“Good morning, Mr Eastwood.”

“How many times have I told you to call me Wes?”

He smiles and nods politely and I make way into the lobby. My assistant is waiting and starts walking alongside me toward the elevator.

“Good morning, Wes.”

“Lucy, anything urgent?”

“Just this Clint Anderson thing. I assume you’ve heard?”

“Yes,” I say with a sigh. “I had the pleasure of a personal call this morning.”

“He had his staffers tweet us that we’re going to lose this bid.”

“Oh, I bet that went down a treat with the bidding team.”

Lucy nods and presses the button on my private elevator. We step inside and I hit the button for the hundredth floor. The elevator starts whooshing up into the sky. The glass walls reveal the neighboring buildings as we glide up over them.

“What’s his interest in Dairy Technics anyway?” she asks. “It doesn’t fit his strategic roadmap at all.”

“None,” I say, throwing my hands up. “He literally admitted to me this morning the only reason he’s bidding is to beat me.”

“That’s insane. It’s a four hundred million dollar market cap.”

“You can never underestimate the insanity of a man like Clint Anderson. He’ll stop at nothing to beat me, even if he doesn’t want the prize.”

Lucy nods but says nothing. She knows all about the fiasco with Clint and my wife eight years ago. Everyone does. It doesn’t bother me but people thread lightly around the subject.

“Why’s he so obsessed with you?” she says.

I smile. “You tell me. Why would the second youngest billionaire in history be obsessed with the guy who beat him?”

Her eyebrows rise. “Some guys just can’t handle second place, I guess.”

I smile. “He’s compensating for something.”

Lucy blushes and I catch myself glancing down over her young body. She’s a consummate professional, dressed impeccably, but I can’t help but notice the extra open button on her blouse, the glimpse of cleavage, and the skirt that’s been steadily getting shorter by the week. I look away. I’d never get involved with an employee. Not Ever. Plus, after my marriage broke down, I pretty much lost my taste for relationships. Sure, I play the field every once in a while, nothing too serious, but with my job, and the full time responsibility of fatherhood, I usually find it more trouble than it’s worth.

The elevator dings and I step out, Lucy at my heel.

“Mr. Eastwood,” the receptionist says.

I give her a smile and tell her to assemble the bidding team. I’ve got to get out ahead of this Anderson bid to stay in the game. I’m not about to allow him to beat me on this. I don’t have to win everything, every time. I’m not as dogmatic and stubborn as Clint. But this Dairy Technics deal is personal. It’s not just about the money. My family were dairy farmers. For once, I actually care about the assets I’m buying. I care about dairy farmers. And this technology has the power to make or break those farmers.

I lead Lucy into the conference room and take a seat while we wait for the bidding team.

“Want some coffee?” Lucy asks.

“Let me get it,” I say.

I go and pour two cups, both with milk in honor of the dairy farmers we’re about to act on behalf of. When I get back to the conference room, the four bidding specialists are there with Lucy, waiting for me.

“Gentlemen, ladies,” I say, taking my seat. “Dairy Technics is not just any trade. This time, it actually means something. There are two ways the dairy industry could go? The first is full automation.”

I look around and see the younger traders nodding. They love the full automation option. Of course they do. Lower costs, higher profits, but at what price?

“That’s the option Clint Anderson will take if he wins this bidding war. It will mean the end of traditional dairy farms as we know them. It will also mean the end of dairy farms in the American heartland. Those fields full of cows. Those quaint red barns. Gone in a single stroke. They’ll be replaced by modern industrial facilities overseas that will see dairy cattle living their entire lives in a controlled industrial environment.”

“That’s business,” Mitch, the youngest trader, says to me.

“Sure it is, Mitch. And we’re not a charity.”

“No, Sir. And we’re not animal rights activists either.”

I nod. It’s this kind of thinking that made me hire Mitch. I don’t fault him for it. He’s smart, he’s logical, and every day he shows up to work and makes me a lot of money. But today is not just another day.

“You all know how I operate. We close the deals that are going to make us the most profit. We forget about the one’s that are going to cost us money. We steer clear of bidding wars like the plague.”

They all nod.

“But this is not just another deal. My grandfather was a dairy farmer. My father was a dairy farmer. It might sound sentimental, but I believe dairy farming has a future in America. And not inside a lab or a factory that destroys the cows’ will to live. On actual farms. In actual fields.”

“So why are we bidding on Dairy Technics?” Mitch says.

“Good question, Mitch. We’re not just bidding on Dairy Technics. We’re going to win this price war. I don’t care what the cost. You have my permission to breach our pricing safeguards and bid up to six hundred million here. I don’t want to hear the details. I just want to win this thing.”

“But at six hundred, we’ll be losing money. A lot of money,” Mitch says.

I shake my head. “You’ll just have to trust me on this one, Mitch. It’s a longer time horizon than we’re used to, but if we buy Dairy Technics, and then lend money to small dairy farmers to upgrade their facilities without destroying their entire way of life, the longterm play will make us money.”

“Not super-profit,” Mitch says.

“Maybe not, Mitch, but sometimes, not often, but sometimes, there’s more at stake than the bottom line.”

I get up and leave but before leaving the room I stop. I don’t want to give my best traders the impression we’re no longer in the business of making money. This is Wall Street, after all. And we are on the hundredth floor of the city’s most expensive skyscraper, dressed in bespoke suits, with billions of dollars under our direct control.

“Oh, and on Hudson Valley, I want you to cut the initial offering by five percent. Those greedy real estate guys can bleed a little.”

The traders look scared at that prospect.

“Sir,” Lucy says, “they’ll take their business elsewhere.”

“Try them,” I say. “They’re not going anywhere.”