This is the moment. The verdict. The culmination of everything we've orchestrated.
I don't hesitate—don't let them wait even a second longer than necessary to understand that the power dynamic has shifted irrevocably. My finger finds the speaker button, the softelectronic beep echoing through our charged silence like a bell tolling.
"This is Sloane."
Miller's voice cuts through the speaker—flat, hollow, stripped of the authority he once wielded. "Henderson wants to see you. Conference Room A. Now."
The line dies with mechanical finality, leaving us staring at the silent phone like witnesses to an execution.
The silence stretches for exactly three heartbeats before Brynn breaks it with a whisper that barely disturbs the air: "Well, I guess the king wants an audience."
I rise from the couch with movements that feel choreographed by destiny itself. My hands are surgeon-steady as I gather my laptop, my presentation materials, all the ammunition I've been preparing for this exact moment. The broken woman who crawled into Frank Miller's office five days ago—desperate, begging, willing to accept scraps—has been burned away completely. What remains is sharp, focused anger tempered by betrayal.
"Time to collect what's ours," I say.
Easton pushes off from the bookshelf, his protective instincts engaging even as he recognizes that I no longer need protection—I need backup. "You want us to wait outside?"
"No." The word comes out sharp, definitive. "You're all coming in. This isn't about me anymore—this is about a revolution."
Garrett moves to my side, not close enough to suggest romantic attachment, but positioned with the deliberate intent of a strategic ally. "Together," he says simply.
Brynn snaps her laptop shut and slides it into her bag with practiced efficiency. "I've got my recorder ready. This is going to make beautiful copy."
We move through my apartment door like a unit—four people united by shared purpose and absolute certainty in our cause. The hallway outside feels different somehow, charged with the electricity of impending victory. We're not retreating from my sanctuary. We're advancing from our stronghold.
The walk through the Mammoth Center's executive suite feels like a victory march. My heels strike the polished marble with metronomic precision, each step echoing through corridors that once felt designed to diminish me. Now they feel like a red carpet rolled out for my return to power.
Behind me, my army moves in perfect formation—Garrett a half-step back and to my right, his presence a wall of silent solidarity; Brynn matching my pace on the left, her journalist's instincts sharp as drawn blades; Easton's imposing frame bringing up the rear like a bodyguard escorting royalty through conquered territory.
The atmosphere shifts as we advance through the corporate battlefield. Conversations wither mid-sentence as we pass. Assistants lift their heads from their screens, wary. Through glass office walls, I catch glimpses of executives freezing in their meetings, their faces painted with expressions I've never seen directed at me before: respect edged with fear.
We pass the junior marketing coordinator who once avoided eye contact in elevators—now she presses herself against the wall as we approach, her eyes wide with something approaching reverence.
"Sloane," she breathes as I pass.
I don't acknowledge her verbally, but something fierce and protective unfurls in my chest. This isn't just about reclaiming my position anymore. This is about proving toevery woman in this building that we don't have to accept being collateral damage in powerful men's games.
The glass walls of Conference Room A appear before us. Through the transparent barrier, I can see the group waiting inside—Henderson standing with his back to us, hands clasped tightly behind him; Vivian hunched at the conference table; Miller slumped in his chair.
I don't pause at the threshold. Don't knock or announce our arrival.
Knocking implies asking permission, and I'm done asking for anything.
I push through the door without ceremony, my team flowing behind me. The soft click of the handle echoes through the sudden silence as three heads swivel toward us.
Henderson turns slowly, and when his cold gray eyes lock onto mine, I see exactly what I came here to witness: a powerful man realizing that his power has limits.
The next move is mine.
And everyone in this room is about to discover exactly what happens when they mistake Sloane McKenzie for something they can break.
36
Sloane
The executive conference room feels like a gladiatorial arena as we enter, all marble surfaces and floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the Minneapolis skyline like a painting of conquest. The late afternoon light slants through the glass, casting everything in sharp relief—the polished mahogany table that could seat twenty, the championship banners hanging like silent witnesses, the three people who will determine my fate.
Robert Henderson, owner of the Minnesota Mammoths, sits at the head of the table, his quiet stillness radiating authority. Everything about the team owner radiates controlled power—from his perfectly tailored charcoal suit to the way his steel-gray eyes track our movement without revealing a flicker of his thoughts. He doesn't stand when we enter, doesn't offer pleasantries or corporate small talk. Just nods once and says, "Let's hear what you have to say."
