Booking.com, the world's largest online accommodation booking platform, had long coveted booming tourism market. But the rapid rise of internet industry left them trailing. Not only did they miss out on Asia's biggest economy, but Ctrip steadily chipped away at their global market share.
Booking.com's CEO, Glenn Fogel, was deeply concerned. During a routine company meeting, the rise of UKBigSale's cross-border tourism business sparked an idea. Unlike Booking.com, which was born in the Netherlands, not the U.S., and went public in 1999, riding a wave of high valuations to acquire over 30 similar sites and expand globally, UKBigSale was a newer player. The dot-com crash had forced Booking.com to scale back drastically, allowing Ctrip to cement its dominance in Asia.
But Booking.com bounced back. By 2004, leaner and sharper, it was stronger than ever. Still, the volatile capital markets didn't let them dominate. Microsoft-backed Expedia, fueled by hefty funding, snatched a third of the global online travel market and gutted Booking.com's U.S. operations. For three years, no new online travel company dared to go public.
Glenn Fogel wasn't too fussed about UKBigSale's UK sports and performance ticketing business. His focus was their cross-border tourism arm, which held a tourism license and had secured the largest cross-border travel group to date. Initially, Fogel approached the mysterious Eastern market with a mix of fear and respect. But this upstart had not only outmaneuvered veterans but also carved out a slice of market. Fogel couldn't ignore it.
A week before UKBigSale's IPO, Fogel secured board approval to acquire the company. He also learned Goldman Sachs was helping UKBigSale's second-largest shareholder, Claire Lee, find buyers. Fogel saw an opportunity—if the founder was looking to exit, snapping up the company should be easy.
"Boss, Claire Lee's likely pledging his shares to Caissa Travel," an aide reported. "They've got major inbound capital and hired a third-party firm to investigate UKBigSale."
Fogel smirked. "Sounds like Mr. Lee's shares won't move easily."
"Exactly. Most shareholders are focused on the ticketing side. Only Caissa Travel shares our interest in their tourism business. Post-IPO, UKBigSale's stock will likely be inflated. firms tend to play it safe, watching for weeks before making acquisition moves. That's the latest intel."
Fogel tossed the report aside without a glance. "The board's authorized $300 million to buy UKBigSale's tourism business outright. Gauge their interest. If they're not selling, we'll become activist shareholders."
---
Fogel's cool confidence was unknown to Claire, who was holed up in his bedroom, mortified. No matter who called, he refused to come out, acting like a shy debutante.
Costa Mayor, playing detective, scoped out Claire's house for spots to install surveillance cameras. Meanwhile, Cristiano Ronaldo and Denis Irwin whispered conspiratorially about trivialities. Steve Chen, under a doctor's care, slipped back into sleep in another room. None of them seemed to care about Claire's drama. If the media were watching, they probably wouldn't have shown up.
Locked away, Claire stashed his collection of teas in a cabinet and sat at his computer, typing furiously. "Ugh, I can't remember the details from Whiplash," he muttered, sucking on a lollipop. His printer churned out two thick stacks of neatly organized scripts: one titled Black Swan, the other La La Land.
His bedroom was a mess, with no space for anyone else. As the sun set, Claire, slumped in his chair, stretched dramatically.
Just then, a taxi pulled up outside his villa. A blond man with glasses stepped out, visibly shocked by the mansion's size. After fixing his appearance in a side mirror, he headed toward the gate. A dog's bark startled him, but a man with a camera—Costa—spotted him. Before Costa could greet him, the man vanished.
John Lee Hancock, the visitor, scratched his head awkwardly. As a director, he felt like he'd hit the jackpot. Last night, Claire had called, praising his script and offering to fund it. In a tough market for film financing, this was a miracle. Hancock had immediately booked a flight from the UK to Hawaii.
Costa, learning Hancock had directed several films, asked awkwardly, "Didn't you see the papers when you landed?"
Hancock, distracted by Ronaldo in the distance, missed the question. Costa tapped his back. "Oh, uh, no," Hancock stammered. "I didn't want to waste Mr. Lee's time. I slept on the late flight."
Costa shrugged. "Alright, I'll try reminding him about this."
Claire's uncle, grinning mischievously, handed Hancock a stack of newspapers. "Since you're a struggling UK director, I'll toss in a return ticket."
Hancock's face fell as he skimmed the papers, realizing the mess Claire was in. Worse, his script could bankrupt him. Based on a real person, Michael Oher, it required hefty licensing fees. Hancock had already spent $800,000 on rights. To secure funding, he'd attended high-end banquets, like one hosted by Tom Hardy where he met Claire. Those events weren't cheap—thousands per bill. He'd even tried pitching the Super Bowl for sponsorship, blowing $20,000 without meeting their execs.
Hancock felt a pang of despair. Negative thoughts can spiral, dragging you down. He was there, tears welling up. Denis Irwin, caught off guard by the crying director, froze. Ronaldo bolted.
Claire, eyeing Hancock's script on the table, glanced awkwardly at the group. Costa threw up his hands. The script, The Biography of Michael Oher, was a gamble. These kinds of films either chased Oscars or flopped hard.
But as Claire read the first scene, a movie title flashed in his mind. By the end, ignoring Costa's smug look, he yanked a couch cushion and chucked it at Hancock. "I'm in! You need $20 million? I'll add $5 million. Can we get this in theaters by year's end?"
Hancock, tears streaming, didn't even notice snot dripping into his mouth. "I'm funded!"
"You're nuts!" Costa snapped.
"He's not!" Hancock shot back, glaring at Costa. Like a devout believer, he practically worshipped Claire, who, grossed out by the snot, headed upstairs.
Costa followed, trying to talk sense into him, but Claire cut him off. "I'm not impulsive. Don't mess with my creative process!"
Costa, fuming, returned downstairs to find Denis Irwin sidling up. "When did Claire get this rich?"
"Don't start," Costa warned. "Keep your political schemes to yourself. My client's not bankrolling your campaigns."
"He's my nephew!"
"He's my client!"
Nearby, Ronaldo, sipping green tea, sat next to Hancock to peek at the script. Hancock quickly stuffed it into his bag. "I love your football, but this script's Oscar-bound. For Claire's investment, I'm keeping it confidential."
Ronaldo shook his head at Hancock's obsession.
Hancock stayed late, unmoved even as Costa hinted Claire was just hungover. He sat on the couch, eyes closed, like a monk in meditation. Steve Chen, waking up, chuckled at the scene. Denis Irwin, acting like a drunk, shuffled toward him.
Before Irwin could speak, Chen cut in. "For Claire's sake, I'd invest in your party, but I'm a Democrat through and through. If you're cool with the backlash, I'll write the check now."
Irwin's open mouth snapped shut.