The moment the doors opened, tense arguments spilled out—already forming. When the door to the conference room swung wide, everyone was already in place. I took my seat at the head of the table.
Richard Farnsworth sat to my left, finishing his coffee, unfazed by catastrophe. I’d brought him on during Falkirk’s first major expansion—when most seasoned executives dismissed me as too young to be taken seriously. We didn’t agree on everything, but he never buckled, and he’d backed my leadership from day one.
To my right sat Alicia Morgan—strategist from the Orlean merger. Sharp-minded, impossible to intimidate, with a memory that rivaled any server we owned. Past her was Linda Cavanaugh, EVP, whose calm efficiency could reorganize half a division in a week. They didn’t always vote my way, but when it came to decisions that shaped Falkirk’s future, we usually aligned.
Across from us sat Nathan Bell and his curated disaster of loyalists.
Gerald Ashford—former general counsel, always imagining lawsuits lurking in every corner. He’d been the one to call my last attempt to remove Nathan “premature.”
Next to him, Scott Lang—CFO from the Tolren merger, tapping his pen in a nervous rhythm. He wasn’t Nathan’s ally by conviction, just proximity. Too easily swayed. Too eager to be on the side that looked safest.
Farther down were Nathan’s dependable drinking partners.
Paul Shore—Wexford’s PE rep, every sentence shaped like a pitch, blinking so infrequently it unsettled half the room.
And finally, James Richter—Kingspath holdover, sunburned year-round, loud enough to fill a room even when he wasn’t talking.
Drinking buddies, vacation partners, family cookouts.
Nathan’s oldest ally.
Four votes solidly behind Nathan.
A powder keg.
And Nathan was sitting at its center.
Paul Shore leaned back. “You know why we’re here, Damien.”
The accusation hit the table before I’d even settled.
I smiled. “I have an idea.”
“Elion was your idea,” Ashford said, caterpillar eyebrows pinched into a frown. “And look at the mess we’re in now.”
“The partnership was my idea,” I corrected calmly. “because Elion’s technology streamlines three of our highest-cost divisions. Predictive processing, adaptive architecture—reducing overhead by twelve percent and boosting output by nearly twenty. And the beta suggests even higher. Positioning Falkirk a full fiscal quarter ahead of Torlen and Kingsp—”
“This isn’t about tech,” Nathan cut in. “It’s about transparency and Emma—”
“Ms.Sinclair,” I bit out.
Her name on his tongue had irritated me before. But now that she was mine? Truly mine. It sparked something far uglier.
Silence tightened around the table, Nathan’s lips curving into a grin.
I sat forward slowly, letting the tension sit heavy before I sliced through it.
“You’re all assuming that the numbers in that leak were complete, current, or presented in their proper context.”
Conversation died as heads lifted.
Even Nathan’s smirk flickered.
“Elion’s audit packet may have been a working file,” I said. “Not finalized. Not verified. And the version that surfaced this morning? None of us can confirm the legitimacy via news broadcast.”
A ripple of discomfort passed through the group.
Richter frowned.
