The boardroom had never been so quiet.
No whispers.
No side conversations.
No false smiles.
Only the sound of breathing—and fear.
—
The vote was scheduled for 9:00 a.m.
By 8:45, every seat was filled.
Not one person arrived late.
That alone told me everything.
—
He sat three seats away from me.
Not beside me.
Not in front.
Behind.
A small thing—but symbols matter.
He wouldn't look at me.
Good.
—
The chairman stood. "We are here to vote on the removal of executive authority pending investigation."
Pending.
Such a polite word for destruction.
He cleared his throat. "This vote concerns—"
"My name," my husband said suddenly.
Every head turned.
"I deserve to speak."
The chairman hesitated, then nodded.
He stood slowly.
This time, there was no confidence.
Only desperation.
—
"I built this company," he said. "I made difficult decisions. If mistakes were made, they were made to protect us."
Protect us.
The same phrase he used when he destroyed me.
No one nodded.
No one clapped.
Silence answered him.
—
I spoke then.
Calm.
Measured.
Deadly.
"No one is questioning effort," I said. "We are questioning ethics."
He turned to me, eyes red. "You're enjoying this."
"No," I replied softly. "I'm finishing it."
—
The chairman raised his hand. "We will proceed."
Names were called.
One by one.
"Approve."
"Approve."
"Approve."
Each word hit him like a blow.
When it ended, there was no suspense.
The vote passed.
Unanimous.
—
He sank back into his chair.
Defeated.
Stripped.
Finished.
—
Security approached quietly.
Procedure again.
But this time, it wasn't against me.
—
As he was escorted out, he looked at me once.
Not with hatred.
With regret.
Too late.
—
The chairman turned to me.
"Effective immediately, you will assume interim executive authority."
The room shifted.
Some nodded.
Some looked relieved.
No one objected.
—
That evening, I stood alone in the boardroom.
City lights reflecting against the glass.
Once, this room decided my fate.
Tonight, it belonged to me.
—