Elise Hartman.
The boardroom air is stale with the scent of expensive coffee and cheap fear. I stand just outside the heavy oak doors, listening. Julian’s voice, smooth and practiced, washes over the room.
“Her delicate mental state is, of course, our primary concern. The trauma she has endured… it would be irresponsible for us not to take decisive action. For her sake. For the company’s sake.”
I smooth the front of my black dress. It is not mourning attire. It is battle armor.
I push the doors open. They swing inward with a soft, heavy groan. Every head in the room swivels towards me. Twelve pairs of eyes. Twelve flickering numbers.
Julian stops mid-sentence. His jaw goes slack for a single, beautiful moment. Above his perfectly coiffed hair, the crimson ‘9’ seems to dim, as if in shock. Then his mask of condescending charm snaps back into place.
“Elise, darling,” he says, rushing towards me. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to be resting.”
He reaches for my arm. I take a half step back, and his hand falls into empty space. I can feel Kaelen Sterling’s gaze from his seat against the far wall. A silent observer. His golden ‘92’ is a steady, burning star in my periphery.
“I’m feeling much clearer now, Julian,” I say, my voice calm and even. It rings with an authority they haven’t heard in weeks. “Thank you for your concern.”
I walk past him, my heels clicking on the polished marble. I don’t stop until I reach my chair. The one at the head of the table. The one he is currently standing beside.
I look at him. I don’t say a word. I just wait.
The color drains from his face as he understands. After a beat of tense silence that feels like an eternity, he steps aside. I take my seat. My throne.
“I’ve read your proposal,” I say, my eyes sweeping over the board members. I catalog their scores. Mr. Abernathy, a friend of my father, a solid ‘72’. Ms. Choi, head of logistics, a wavering ‘45’. Two of Julian’s recent appointments, a ‘28’ and a ‘31’. The rest are scattered in between.
“A bold plan, Julian,” I continue, looking directly at him. “To sell off our R&D assets and leverage the capital for a series of high-risk acquisitions.”
“It’s a strategy for aggressive growth, Elise,” he says, regaining some of his composure. “To secure our position while you recover.”
“Mr. Abernathy,” I say, turning my attention to the older man. “This proposal calls for the immediate liquidation of the Phoenix Project. Your project. The one you and my father believed was the future of this company.”
Abernathy’s eyes narrow. His ‘72’ ticks up to a ‘75’. “He told me it was a temporary reallocation of funds.”
“The proposal says liquidate,” I say simply. I turn to Ms. Choi. “And your entire department would be outsourced by the end of the quarter. I’m sure the ‘cost benefits’ were explained in detail.”
Her ‘45’ jumps to a ‘58’. Her face pales. “No. That was not my understanding.”
“Julian is a master of misunderstandings,” I say, my voice turning to ice. I pick up a remote and the large screen behind me flickers to life. It’s not a complex financial model. It’s a simple chart. A timeline.
“This is our projected growth based on current operations,” I say, a steady green line climbing across the screen. “And this…” A second line appears. A jagged red one that spikes briefly before plummeting into a death spiral. “Is the projected outcome of Julian’s proposal after eighteen months.”
I present the preliminary data I spent all night compiling. The flaws. The doctored numbers. The catastrophic long-term consequences he hid beneath layers of corporate jargon.
“This isn’t a recovery plan,” I say, my voice echoing in the stunned silence. “This is a fire sale. A desperate, short-sighted attempt to gut this company for a quick payout.”
Julian is speechless. Utterly, beautifully speechless. His face is a mask of fury and humiliation. I watch, fascinated, as the crimson ‘9’ above his head flickers. It drops to a ‘6’. Then a ‘4’. He is seething.
I look at Kaelen. He hasn’t moved. His expression is unreadable, but there’s an intensity in his gaze that pins me in place. His ‘92’ remains unchanged. A constant. An enigma.
“Now,” I say, turning back to the board. “Shall we vote on this proposal to grant Mr. Thorne temporary controlling interest in Hartman Industries?”
I look around the table. No one moves.
“I see,” I say with a small, cold smile. “Then I believe this meeting is over.”
I stand up, my spine straight. I reclaimed my company without raising my voice. I took back my life without shedding a tear.
I look down the length of the table at Julian. His knuckles are white where he grips the back of his chair. His score is a pathetic, glowing ‘4’.
“Julian,” I say, my voice soft now, almost a whisper. “We need to talk.”
The promise in those four words hangs in the air, more dangerous than any threat I could ever scream. I turn and walk out, leaving him to crumble in the ruins of his failed coup.
