Frank Miller slouches in his chair like he owns not just this room but the air we're breathing, his expensive tie loosened in a calculated display of casual dominance. When his gaze lands on me, his mouth curves into something that might generously be called a smile but feels more like a warning.
But it's Vivian who draws my focus. She sits rigidly upright, her hair pulled into a chignon so severe it looks painful.Her manicured fingers drum against the mahogany table with barely contained nervous energy, and there's something in her eyes—a glittering brittleness that tells me she's operating on pure adrenaline and desperation.
Good. Desperate people make mistakes.
I move toward the head of the table with deliberate precision, my heels clicking against the marble like a countdown. Behind me, I'm acutely aware of my team falling into formation—Brynn and Easton taking seats along the far wall, their presence a reminder that I'm not alone in this fight. But it's Garrett who makes my breath catch as we approach the conference table.
Without a word, without even looking at me, he moves to pull out my chair. Not the gallant gesture of a man trying to impress, but the fluid, unconscious action of someone who knows my rhythms so well that anticipating my needs has become instinct. His hand settles on the chair back at the exact moment I reach for it, our movements synchronized with the kind of perfect timing that comes from months of stolen moments and shared secrets.
The contact is brief—just his fingers brushing mine as I grasp the chair—but it sends electricity racing up my arm. For one dangerous second, I'm not the brilliant strategist about to reshape this organization. I'm just a woman whose heart still recognizes the man she loves, even when everything else between us is fractured.
I force the awareness down, burying it beneath layers of professional composure. This isn't about us. This is about justice. About proving that I'm more than they ever allowed me to be.
"Gentlemen. Ms. Lamore," I say, settling into my chair and opening my laptop. "Thank you for your time. WhatI'm about to present will fundamentally change how this organization operates—and how much money it makes."
The presentation begins to glow on the wall-mounted screen behind me, each slide a masterpiece of strategic thinking and financial projection. I've spent the last eighteen hours refining every detail, every number, every compelling argument until the proposal is perfectly sharp.
"The Mammoth Community Champions Program," I begin, my voice carrying the confidence of someone who knows she's holding a royal flush. "A comprehensive community engagement platform projected to generate one hundred and fifty million dollars in new revenue over the next three years."
Henderson leans forward slightly, the first sign of genuine interest I've seen from him. Miller shifts in his chair with obvious impatience, but Vivian goes absolutely still, her drumming fingers freezing mid-tap.
"One hundred and fifty million," I continue, advancing to the next slide. "Through strategic partnerships with educational institutions, youth development programs, and corporate sponsors who want to align with authentic community impact rather than simple logo placement."
The numbers flow from my lips like poetry—demographic analysis, market penetration projections, ROI calculations that would make Harvard Business School weep with envy. I watch Henderson's expression sharpen with each statistic, see the exact moment when corporate curiosity becomes genuine fascination.
But Miller's scoff cuts sharply through my momentum.
"Ms. McKenzie," he interrupts, not bothering to hide his condescension. "This is all very... creative. But let's be realistic about what you're actually proposing. Communityoutreach is a nice PR gesture, but it's not a business strategy. I think we can end this charade."
I don't flinch, don't let his dismissal derail the rhythm I've built. "Mr. Miller, with respect, you're looking at this through an outdated lens. Modern consumers—especially Gen Z and millennials—don't just buy products. They buy values. Authenticity. Purpose."
Henderson's steel-gray eyes shift from me to the presentation, then back to my face. When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of absolute authority.
"I've heard enough," he says, his tone deceptively mild, "Let's address the primary issue at hand." His gaze swivels to Vivian with laser precision. "Ms. Lamore, you were Ms. McKenzie's direct supervisor. I'm curious to hear your professional assessment of both her performance and these allegations of workplace sabotage."
The air in the room crystallizes. This is it—the moment I've been waiting for. I watch Vivian's face, see her perfect composure begin to crack at the edges as she realizes she's been thrust into the spotlight.
"Well," she begins, her voice slightly strained but still controlled, "Mr. Henderson, I think we need to consider the source of these... accusations. Ms. McKenzie has demonstrated a consistent pattern of poor judgment, particularly regarding professional boundaries."
She's trying to sound reasonable, measured. But I can see the tell-tale signs of panic beginning to surface—the slight tremor in her voice, the way her knuckles have gone white where she grips the table.
"Furthermore," Vivian continues, gaining confidence as she warms to her theme, "I have to wonder about the motivations behind this proposal. This is all very elaborate, butlet's be honest—did she and Sullivan cook this up during their pillow talk? Because if this is some scheme to rehabilitate her reputation through grand gestures and emotional manipulation—"
The words hang heavy in the air, transforming the sterile conference room into something ugly and toxic. Every molecule of oxygen seems to vibrate with the weight of her accusation, and I feel rather than see every head in the room turn toward Garrett.
This is the moment. The ultimate test of everything we've rebuilt between us.
In my peripheral vision, I see Garrett go perfectly still. Not the explosive tension of a man preparing to fight, but the controlled stillness of someone making a choice. Our eyes meet across the polished table, and in that instant, I see everything he's learned, everything he's become.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't leap to my defense or deliver some passionate declaration of my competence. Instead, he gives me the smallest nod—barely perceptible, but loaded with absolute trust. Then, with deliberate precision, he takes a half-step back from the table.
The gesture is subtle, but its meaning hits me with a force. He's not retreating. He's ceding the floor. Not because he's been cowed or dismissed, but because he understands that this moment belongs to me.
Something fierce unfurls in my chest—love and desire and gratitude tangled together, nearly stealing my breath. I want to reach for him, want to close the distance between us and show him exactly what his trust means to me. But I force the longing down, channeling it into something sharper, more useful.
I stand slowly, letting my full height and presence fill the space. When I speak, my voice carries the conversational tone of someone offering comfort to a wounded animal.
"Vivian," I say gently, and something in my tone makes her go very still. "I understand."
