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Christmas in New York was supposed to be about family, lovers, and holiday cheer.
Instead of champagne and mistletoe, the upper floors blazed with fluorescent lights. Accounting, tax, and legal teams were pulling marathon shifts. Executives from every Stark subsidiary had flown in, dragging crates of financial reports with them. The building felt less like a tech empire and more like a war bunker.
And at the very top—behind the massive doors of the chairman's office—Tony Stark had locked himself in for three straight days.
Bloodshot eyes, rumpled clothes, and a smell that could knock over a lab intern. It had gotten so bad that Obadiah Stane and Edwin Jarvis had physically shoved him into the bathroom before his genius brain started rotting from lack of hygiene.
Obadiah, bald head gleaming under the office lights, shook his head as he sorted through a stack of balance sheets. "Tell me he hasn't lost his damn mind. On the day of the funeral, he vanished—I thought he'd pulled another one of his disappearing acts. Usually, it takes a year of begging and threats just to get him to think about inheriting the company. Now he's suddenly working harder than any of us. What, did someone swap him out for a clone?"
Jarvis, straightening the mess around the office, replied calmly, "If Master Tony has decided to face responsibility, that's hardly a bad thing. The IRS gives nine months to settle estate taxes, but in truth that's not long at all. The sooner he gets his bearings, the better positioned we'll be."
"Sure," Obadiah muttered. "But this kind of energy worries me. Feels like the setup to a spectacularly stupid decision."
A voice cut in from behind them.
"What kind of stupid decision? Shutting down Stark Industries entirely?"
Tony emerged freshly showered, clean shirt clinging damp to his shoulders, hair still wet.
Obadiah didn't even flinch at being caught. "Tony, let's be clear. Legally, you can't shut down a single department of this company—hell, you can't make any decisions—until you've paid the estate tax. If you nuke Stark Industries without covering that bill, you won't be starting fresh in a garage. You'll be starting buried in debt."
Tony shrugged, unbothered. "Yeah, I've thought about that. And you're not entirely wrong. But what I've got in mind isn't what you think."
Obadiah groaned, rubbing his chest like he'd just survived a rollercoaster drop. "Please, for the love of God, explain before you give me a heart attack."
Tony picked up a few handwritten notes and gestured toward the lounge chairs. "Sit down, Uncle Obie. If you keel over, it's paperwork for me. Jarvis, whiskey. Make it a triple."
"Of course, sir." Jarvis moved to the bar, then glanced at Obadiah. "For you as well, Mr. Stane?"
"Yes. Make it a double."
"And pour yourself one too, J. We're all in this together." Tony dropped onto the sofa, flipping through his scrawled notes.
Jarvis returned with a silver tray, three glasses, and the bottle. Once the drinks were poured, Tony finally began.
"Alright. You both know Stark Industries better than I do. We're privately held—no public shares, no Wall Street circus. Which is exactly why every vulture on Wall Street has their eyes on us."
Obadiah nodded grimly. "I warned Howard about that. In America, monopolies don't survive long—not without enemies coming for blood. Even with the Pentagon in your corner."
Tony waved him off before the lecture could spiral. "Yeah, yeah, save the history lesson. The point is, because we stayed off the market, the ownership structure's actually pretty clean. Stark Industries isn't even the right name. It's really the Stark Group—a web of subsidiaries where you both hold significant shares.
"But there are also two foundations in the mix: the Stark Foundation for Education and Culture, and the New York Veterans' Foundation. Both hold sizeable stakes."
Jarvis answered smoothly. "The education foundation was Howard's way of mimicking certain… clever financial strategies. A shield against estate taxes. You, Master Tony, are the registered head. But transfers are capped each year, which is why a considerable fortune is still under Howard's direct name."
Tony raised a brow. "And the Veterans' Foundation? What's their angle? Anything to do with the official veterans' association?"
Jarvis hesitated. Some things were still classified. He finally said, "Not exactly. It's privately established. Its chairwoman is… Ms. Peggy Carter, regarded by many as Captain America's widow. She has been looking for a successor lately, planning her retirement."
Tony shuddered. "Oh, great. Aunt Peggy. Another unstoppable woman I can't afford to piss off."
He didn't need details to guess the military fingerprints all over it. Best not to fight that battle—just keep her support and move on.
Tony exhaled, tapping his notes. "Anyway. After three days of digging through hell, the math is in. What I owe Uncle Sam? Three point four billion. And that's after trimming the fat. It's several times more than our entire liquid reserve combined."
Obadiah's grin had a trace of schadenfreude. "Honestly, consider yourself lucky. If we'd been public, the papers would've painted you as owing tens of billions—maybe even hundreds. At least the outside world has no idea just how big the bill really is."
Tony swirled the whiskey in his glass, smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh, I'm very aware. And I've got a plan."
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