A tense silence hung in the club's private room, broken only by the faint hum of the overhead fan.
Shane's gaze lingered on the word "Kodak"—now struck through by Whitney's precise pen stroke. His throat tightened, the bitterness of the cooling coffee spreading across his tongue. It wasn't the coffee—it was regret.
His so-called advantage from the future had made him arrogant. Those memories, those insights into the decades ahead—the rise of sound film, color projection, the coming power of networks—had given him an illusion of control. But Wall Street was no place for illusions. Here, technology alone could never conquer the battlefield of men and money.
If only I'd listened to the legal team's warnings…
He turned the cup in his hand, thumb brushing along the porcelain rim. The smooth glaze now felt rough, almost gritty, against his skin.
Forcing a calm breath, Shane reached into his suit pocket and withdrew a gold-plated fountain pen. He leaned forward and jotted a series of numbers on the corner of Whitney's memo.
"Do you know how much film the eight major studios in Hollywood used last year?"
Whitney arched a silver eyebrow.
"Enlighten me."
"Forty-eight million feet," Shane replied. "That's roughly 130,000 feet of film per day. Meanwhile, the Delaware plant you mentioned—" he paused for effect "—barely produces 5,500 feet daily."
A waiter's cart rattled faintly outside the oak doors, its wheels muffled by the carpet. Whitney smiled thinly, a flash of amusement breaking through his otherwise severe demeanor.
"Mr. Cassidy," he said, "you've made a classic entrepreneur's mistake—confusing production capacity with controlling interest."
He turned to a fresh page in his leather-bound memo pad and drew a clean diagram, his movements quick and deliberate.
"Morgan holds 51% of the Delaware plant. Pioneer Optics holds 29%. The remaining 20% sits with three independent shell companies."
"When expansion becomes necessary…" He tapped three dots with his pen. "Those shells will receive government orders, then subcontract production to Kodak—legally invisible, entirely deniable."
Shane's pupils narrowed. The elegance of the trap became horrifyingly clear.
Morgan's lawyers had built not a business plan, but a shield—one that could sacrifice its edges and survive intact.
"A bridge built from playing cards," Shane murmured.
"Perhaps," Whitney replied evenly, "but we built it in a room with no wind."
He reached into his briefcase and withdrew a stamped document—its top marked with the seal of the U.S. Department of Justice.
"These," he said, "are the minutes from the Antitrust Division's internal meeting last month. As long as a company's share of any given market stays below thirty-five percent, they won't even open an investigation."
Outside, Manhattan's skyline shimmered through the rain-speckled window, a sea of electric lights and ambition.
"Thirty-five percent?" Shane said softly. "Interesting."
He switched, without warning, into fluent German.
"Do you know how much film UFA imported from the United States last year?"
Whitney froze for an instant. The point was made. Shane wasn't just thinking domestically—he was already mapping Europe's postwar hunger for film stock and color technology.
The older man recapped his pen with a deliberate click. The game had changed.
Shane leaned back, studying him.
"Political capital is more expensive than patents," he said evenly. "So let's stop circling. What does Morgan want? A 51% stake in Pioneer Optics—or priority rights over the entire patent pool?"
Whitney's gray eyes lifted. His tone cooled into steel.
"Mr. Morgan," he said, "is less interested in ownership—and more interested in you. He wants to know whether you're worth his political capital."
He rose slightly in his seat, his posture sharp as a blade.
"The antitrust laws are only the first gate. Beyond them lie the Federal Communications Commission, the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America, and the Senate Commerce Committee. You'll need more than innovation to walk through those doors. You'll need allies—and discretion."
Shane tightened his grip around the glass of whiskey in front of him. He saw now that this meeting was never about contracts. It was an examination. Morgan's envoy was testing not his figures, but his composure.
He forced a thin smile.
"Have you seen Metropolis?" he asked suddenly.
Whitney blinked. "The silent film? German."
"Yes." Shane's voice steadied. "Most people were watching the actors' movements. We were watching the light. Every frame—lit like a Rembrandt. That's what we do, Mr. Whitney."
He set the glass down, tracing an invisible rectangle in the air.
"When the Justice Department looks at our market share, we show them financial reports. When they inspect the reports, we show them patents. And when they question the patents—we show them art."
For the first time that night, Whitney said nothing. He simply withdrew a gold pocket watch from his vest. With a flick of his thumb, a soft click broke the silence.
He checked the time, then looked up.
"Mr. Morgan will see you at Newport Villa, Friday night, ten o'clock," he said calmly, adjusting his bow tie. As he reached for his hat, a faint smirk played on his lips. "His yacht is called The Pirate. Fitting name, don't you think?"
Shane didn't answer. He watched as Whitney strode from the room, the heavy doors closing behind him with a soft thud that echoed like a verdict.
He poured himself another drink, downing it in one motion. The whiskey burned his throat, spreading warmth and defiance in equal measure.
In the dark reflection of the window, his face looked older—harder. He pulled out his pen and began writing across the back of Whitney's discarded memo:
35% antitrust red line.
Military R&D cover.
Dispersed shareholding structure.
Political capital investment.
He drew two firm lines under the last point.
Then he whispered to himself, almost laughing:
"Technology and vision are one thing. But in this city… only political capital buys silence."