The silence in the hallways of 26 Broadway was different today; it was the silence of a held breath before a scream.
Jason and Alta walked straight from the elevator toward the inner sanctum. They hadn't even stopped to change clothes after the train ride from Washington. The summons had been that urgent.
To their left and right, dozens of clerks sat bent low over their desks, scribbling furiously. Not a single one dared to look up. They could smell the ozone of the coming storm.
"He will never forgive this," Alta whispered. Her face was pale, her knuckles white as she clutched her purse. She was a Rockefeller, raised to fear only God and her father, and right now, she wasn't sure there was a difference.
Jason adjusted his cuffs, his movement calm and precise. "He doesn't need to forgive, Alta. He needs to profit."
They reached the massive oak doors. Jason didn't knock. He pushed them open.
John D. Rockefeller Sr. was not standing by the window, looking out at his empire as he usually did. He was seated behind his desk, a monolith of black wool and cold judgment.
Spread out before him was the morning edition of the New York World. The headline was brutal: STANDARD OIL SURRENDERS.
Rockefeller looked up. His eyes were dead. Void of light. Void of warmth.
"You sold my company," he said.
It wasn't a question. It was a verdict.
He stood up slowly. He looked frail, his skin like parchment stretched over bone, but the aura of power that radiated from him was terrifying. It filled the room, sucking out the air.
"I built this from the ground," Rockefeller said, his voice a low, trembling rasp. "I fought for every inch. I crushed every rival. I bought every politician. I built the greatest machine the world has ever seen."
He pointed a skeletal finger at Jason. "And you gave it away. To a cowboy in a tennis outfit."
Alta stepped forward, her voice shaking. "Father, please, you don't understand—"
"Silence!" Rockefeller snapped. He didn't look at her. His eyes were locked on Jason. "I want an explanation, Ezra. Before I destroy you."
Jason didn't apologize. He didn't cower. He walked forward until he was standing directly across the desk from the Titan.
He reached out and ripped the ticker tape from the machine on the desk. The paper coiled like a serpent in his hand. He slammed it down onto the newspaper.
"I didn't give it away," Jason said, his voice hard. "I saved it from rotting."
Rockefeller's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"You are holding onto a corpse, sir," Jason said. "The monopoly is dead. The public hates it. The government is hunting it. Every day we fight this war, the stock price bleeds. We are suffocating under the weight of our own size."
He grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. He drew a quick, crude diagram. Seven circles.
"The 'Sum of Parts'," Jason said, tapping the circles. "It is a basic law of finance that you are ignoring because of pride. Right now, the market values Standard Oil at a discount because of the legal risk. It is a clumsy, slow giant."
He looked up, meeting the old man's gaze. "But if we break it? If we create seven independent, hungry companies? The legal risk vanishes. The efficiency skyrockets. The market will re-value every single asset."
"It is my name!" Rockefeller slammed his hand on the desk. "It is my legacy! You are carving up my life's work!"
"Your legacy is wealth!" Jason shouted back, matching the old man's intensity. "Your legacy is power! Do you want to be the king of a dead empire, clinging to a name while the world moves on? Or do you want to be the god of a new one?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Jason lowered his voice. He leaned in.
"The age of kerosene is over, sir. The electric light killed it. The age of gasoline is beginning. These new companies... Standard of New Jersey, Standard of California... they won't just sell light. They will sell motion. They will power the cars, the trucks, the planes. They will power the entire twentieth century."
He pointed at the ticker tape.
"But they can't do that if they are shackled to a dying monopoly. You have to let the old king die so the new ones can rise."
Rockefeller stared at him. The anger in his eyes began to recede, replaced by a cold, calculating assessment. He looked at the diagram Jason had drawn. He looked at the newspaper. He looked at the ticker tape.
He was a businessman first. A sentimentalist second.
Slowly, he sat back down. He picked up the ticker tape and ran it through his fingers.
"Prove it," Rockefeller whispered.
He looked up at Jason. The threat in his eyes was gone, replaced by a challenge.
"Execute the breakup. Do it exactly as you planned. But hear me, Ezra."
His voice dropped to a chilling whisper.
"If the value drops... if I lose one single dime of my fortune... you are finished. I will strip you of everything. I will leave you in the gutter."
Jason straightened his tie. He smiled.
"Deal."
The next month was a blur.
The legal dissolution of the largest company in history was not a gentle process. It was a demolition.
Jason commandeered the main boardroom at 26 Broadway. He turned it into a war room. The massive table was covered in stacks of legal documents that looked like a paper city.
Lawyers argued over assets. Accountants screamed over valuations. Jason was the conductor of the chaos. He worked eighteen hours a day, fueled by coffee and the adrenaline of the gamble.
He divided the pipelines. He split the refineries. He carved up the marketing territories. He was performing surgery on a behemoth.
Alta was by his side every step of the way. She managed the press, spinning the breakup not as a defeat, but as a strategic modernization. She managed her brother, keeping Junior's moralizing out of the boardroom. She was a force of nature.
Finally, the day came.
The official dissolution decree was signed. Standard Oil, the monolith, was no more. In its place stood thirty-four independent companies. The "Seven Sisters"—the largest of the shards—were ready to trade.
The news hit the wires at 8:00 AM.
STANDARD OIL DISSOLVED. NEW SHARES TO TRADE AT OPEN.
At 9:30 AM, Jason, Alta, and John D. Rockefeller Sr. stood around the ticker machine in the old man's office.
The silence was absolute. The only sound was the rhythmic click-clack-click of the machine as it began to spit out the morning's prices.
Jason held his breath. This was it. His life, his future, everything hung on the next few minutes.
The first price came in. Standard Oil of New Jersey (Exxon).
It opened at 50.
Jason watched.
52... 55... 60...
Rockefeller Sr. leaned forward, his eyes glued to the tape.
The next quote. Standard Oil of New York (Mobil).
Opened at 40. Jumped to 48.
The machine began to chatter faster, struggling to keep up with the volume. The market wasn't just accepting the breakup. It was devouring it. Investors realized what Jason had known all along: the pieces were worth far more than the whole.
Standard of California (Chevron). Up 20%.
Standard of Indiana (Amoco). Up 30%.
The wealth was multiplying before their eyes. Millions of dollars were being created out of thin air, minute by minute.
Rockefeller Sr. watched the numbers climb. He did the math in his head, faster than any machine. His personal fortune was ballooning. He was becoming the richest man the world had ever seen, by a margin that was almost comical.
A smile broke across his face.
It wasn't a grandfatherly smile. It was a terrifying, predatory grin of pure triumph.
"My god," Rockefeller whispered. "We're richer than before. We're richer than Midas."
He turned to Jason. His eyes were shining.
"You were right," he said.
He reached out and put a hand on Jason's shoulder. It was heavy, claiming.
"You were right about everything."