“Callahan,” I say quietly.
The boardroom door opens. My head of security steps in, along with a man from building security.
“Mr. Hale is leaving,” I tell them. “Please escort him from the building.”
Martin’s eyes meet mine, and I see pure hatred there. It’s a look I’ve seen before. From men who thought they were predators and discovered too late they were prey.
“This isn’t over,” he says.
“Yes it is.” I don’t look away. “Goodbye, Martin.”
Security escorts Martin out, and the boardroom door closes behind them with a soft click.
For a moment,nobody speaks.
Then Helena clears her throat. “Given the circumstances, I believe we should vote on the matter of CEO leadership. Mr. Hale’s motion proposed temporary restructuring. I move that we reject that motion and affirm Nico Rossi’s position, with the enhanced oversight provided by the foundation restructuring proposal.”
The vote happens. Nine to two. Martin’s closest allies are the dissenting voices, but they’re now irrelevant. The rest of the board has seen enough.
I won.
It should feel like a victory. Instead it feels like a prosthetic limb that fits perfectly on the outside but still aches where the real thing used to be.
“The foundation restructuring proposal is hereby approved,” Helena announces. “We’ll expect the full implementation plan within two weeks. This meeting is adjourned.”
Board members begin gathering their things. Several approach me with handshakes and congratulations and carefully worded statements of support that mean absolutely nothing. I accept them on autopilot, scanning the room.
But Bree is gone.
She must have slipped out already.
I extricate myself from the congratulations and move toward the door.
Larissa catches my arm. “Nico. We need to discuss the legal follow-up. Martin will likely retaliate through the courts.”
“Tomorrow,” I tell her. “Handle the immediate paperwork. Document everything. But the detailed strategy can wait.”
She studies my face. Whatever she sees there makes her nod and step back.
The hallway outside the boardroom is empty. I head toward my office, but Bree isn’t at her desk. I spot Cressida nearby, who’s pretending to organize files at a side table.
“Ms. Dawson?” I ask.
Cressida doesn’t meet my eyes. “She went to the roof terrace. Said she needed air.”
The roof terrace.
I head for the stairs.
I push through the roof access door. Manhattan spreads out below.
Bree stands at the railing, arms wrapped around herself, staring at nothing.
I stop a few feet away.
Giving her space.
Giving her a choice.
