That image is burned into me so deep I still dream about it.
Even now, all these years later, it takes everything in me not to flinch.
I blink a little too long and force the memory away.
Dante sits, forearms now bare, posture loose and arrogant.
He doesn’t seem rattled. He never does.
Corrine gives him the briefest nod, and he ignores her—as always.
I follow her lead, settling in beside him like I haven’t spent the last twelve hours preparing for this exact moment.
One of the board members leans forward, expression lined with something between disappointment and finality.
“We’ve reviewed the footage from yesterday’s incident,” he begins, “as well as the ongoing record of internal conflict over the past five years.”
My stomach knots.
I don’t have to hear the rest to know where it’s going.
“We believe it’s time to explore a transition in leadership.”
Silence.
“The firm will begin evaluating external candidates to assume the roles of co-CEOs.”
It lands with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.
There’s no shouting. No protest. Not yet.
But the floor just dropped beneath us.
And we both know it.
I clear my throat and lean forward slightly, the practiced calm in my voice doing everything my pulse refuses to.
“If the board feels strongly about a leadership transition,” I begin carefully, “then perhaps the solution isn’t replacement but revision. We could extend the escrow period—another quarter, even six months. Give the firm time to stabilize and allow us to rebuild your confidence.”
A few of the board members glance toward each other—thoughtful, but unreadable.
Before anyone can respond, Dante moves.
He stands, grabs his jacket from the chair, and slings it over his shoulder like we’ve just finished lunch and not been handed our professional execution.
“Transition in leadership.” He mutters. “That’s cute.”
I turn toward him, already tense. “Dante?—”
He ignores me. His gaze is fixed on the board now, posture loose but loaded.
“You have anyone in mind?” he asks, voice smooth but sharp.
There’s a beat of silence. A few board members exchange a glance—irritated, clearly—but no one answers.
“Didn’t think so,” Dante says, already half-turned toward the door.
I lower my voice, trying to cut him off at the knees before he does more damage. “Dante, don’t?—”
