My spine stiffens. Every instinct in me tightens like a wire. This is her moment, and I know it before she’s even opened her mouth.
The microphone catches her voice perfectly. “Good evening,” she says, and the room responds with appreciative murmurs. “Thank you all for being here. We’re gathered tonight for an important cause, and I’m grateful for your generosity.”
She pauses, gaze sweeping the crowd. Then her eyes settle, deliberately, on me.
“And,” she continues, tone shifting into something more serious, “I believe it’s also important that we hold ourselves to the same standards we claim to support.”
A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd. A few heads tilt. I feel Brant’s eyes on me from across the room.
Karen’s voice stays calm. “We cannot stand here and speak about protecting the vulnerable while allowing exploitation to thrive in our own leadership.”
I suck in a breath. The ballroom seems to constrict; the air changing.
Karen’s gaze doesn’t leave me. “I’m speaking,” she says, “of Anthony Voss.”
Silence drops hard enough to feel physical. My pulse stays steady through sheer discipline.
Karen lifts her chin. “There is proof,” she says, each word measured for maximum damage, “that our CEO exploited a vulnerable employee. Someone younger, in a weaker position, someone who was taken advantage of and coerced into an arrangement that benefited him.”
A few gasps ring out through the crowd. Someone whispers. A chair scrapes faintly.
Karen’s voice grows more righteous, more certain. “This is abuse of power. This is misconduct. This is a stain on this company and on every person who stands by and says nothing.”She places a hand on the podium like she’s steadying herself against heartbreak. “And for the sake of Voss & Bartley’s integrity?—”
She turns her head slightly, addressing the board members in the room as if we’re already in session.
“I demand he step down.”
For a single beat, I feel the night tilt.
Not because I’m surprised. I expected a move. I just didn’t expect her to do it here, in front of donors and cameras and reporters who will turn this into headlines before dessert is served.
And I can’t defend myself the way I would in a boardroom without turning the gala into exactly what she wants — a spectacle. A bloodbath.
I force myself to stand. It’s slow. Controlled. The chair doesn’t scrape. My jacket falls perfectly into place. Every eye in the room is on me now.
“Karen,” I say into the hush, my voice carrying without a microphone because I know how to command a room. “This is neither the time nor the place.”
Her smile sharpens, triumphant. “Is there ever a good time to address abuse, Anthony?”
A flashbulb pops. Someone shifts. The air tastes metallic.
I keep my gaze steady. “You’re harming the company with this,” I say, clear and firm. “If you believe there is an issue requiring governance action, we will address it through proper channels. The board can convene. We can vote. Not in a ballroom in front of donors.”
Karen’s eyes gleam. “Proper channels,” she repeats softly, like it’s a joke. “So you can bury it. So you can silence it.”
Murmurs spread. The crowd is hungry in that sick, human way — people who came for charity now feeding on scandal. But my eyes desperately flick once more to the entrance.
Still no April.
Without her, Karen gets to paint whatever story she wants. Without her, it’s my word against a room that loves a downfall. Without her, the empty seat beside me becomes proof, not omission.
My throat tightens, not with fear of Karen, not with fear of Aidan Snow or the board or the press.
With the sudden, brutal sensation that this is what losing looks like.
Not a vote. Not a lawsuit. But a woman not walking through the door.
I keep my face composed as the room buzzes louder, cameras turning, whispers multiplying, Karen standing at the podium like she’s already won. Inside, something cold spreads through me with a dreadful calm.
