“But now, after this public declaration—after witnessing this personal, emotional bias firsthand—it confirms my worst fears. His speech wasn't a professional endorsement; it was a confession. This relationship has compromised their judgment. It’s no longer speculation. We’re watching the consequences unfold right here in this boardroom.”
She’s not accusing. She’s regretting. Not striking, but sacrificing. It's genius. She’s framed it perfectly: the concerned executive forced into action by someone else’s recklessness.
Mr. Blackwood sets his pen down with the slow, quiet finality of a man delivering a verdict.
His voice, when it comes, is stripped of all warmth. “Frank,” he says, cool and clipped. “Our partnership discussions were built on the promise of a professional, no-tolerance environment. We're a bank, not a tabloid—our brand can't afford this kind of public drama. This—” he gestures to the space between Garrett and me, “—is precisely the kind of brand liability we require our partners to avoid.”
Liability. The word hangs there, final.
Frank turns to me. The rage I feared isn't there. Something worse has taken its place—cold, icy disappointment.
He addresses Blackwood first, the display of control deliberate. “Mr. Blackwood, please accept my apologies. This organization upholds its standards, and we act decisively when they’re violated.”
Then his gaze shifts, and the full weight of his authority lands on me.
“Ms. McKenzie, you’ve put this organization in an untenable position. This is a blatant breach of conduct—made worse by the timing, the venue, and the company present.”
Each word strips something from me. Piece by piece.
“Effective immediately, you are suspended pending a full HR investigation,” Miller says, flat and final. “You may leave. Now.”
The words land like physical blows. My world reduces to two points of focus: the gleaming conference table and Garrett’s face as it finally hits him—
He didn’t protect me. Hedestroyedme.
I watch his expression crumble. I see the exact second his pride morphs into horror.
The promotion. The respect. The career I bled for. Gone.
Frank’s voice fades into static. My hands move mechanically, closing my laptop with a quiet click that sounds unnaturally loud in the silence.
I gather my portfolio—the same one I thought would secure my future. Now it feels like evidence. A relic from a fantasy that never stood a chance.
I don’t cry. Don’t argue. I won’t give them that satisfaction. There’s nothing left to say.
I rise, legs numb and alien, each step toward the door loud in the silence. Behind me, I hear Garrett's sharp intake of breath, the scrape of his chair as he starts to move.
"Sloane—"
I don't turn around. Don't acknowledge the broken sound of my name on his lips.
The heavy boardroom door clicks shut behind me with a finality that resonates through my bones, leaving my career and my heart scattered like wreckage on that polished table.
The hallway stretches before me, surreal—polished marble reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights in distorted patterns that make my vision blur. Each footstep is a drumbeat of humiliation.
One step. Then another.
The elevator is ahead. Escape.
My fingers clutch the portfolio I once believed would launch me to the next level. Now it feels like the punchline to a cruel joke. The leather is slick with sweat, and every fiber of my body wants to throw it away. Burn it. Forget this ever happened.
The air smells sterile—industrial cleaner and expensive cologne. The aftershocks of the boardroom collapse still cling to me. Everything’s too bright, too sharp, like reality’s contrast dial has been cranked to maximum.
Behind me, the boardroom doorexplodesopen with enough force that the sound ricochets down the corridor with startling force.
I freeze mid-step, my body moving on pure instinct. There's an alcove ahead—a recessed nook where they keep the emergency equipment—and I press myself against the wall, making myself as small as possible. The marble is shockingly cold against my back, seeping through my blazer like liquid ice.
"Sullivan."
