Chapter 4 4

POV: Liam

The Sterling Tech boardroom felt like a tomb, specifically the kind of high-end, glass-and-steel mausoleum where legacies were buried under the weight of quarterly earnings reports. We were four days away from the shareholder meeting, and the air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of overpriced coffee and the sharp, metallic tang of desperation. The morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Sterling Tower didn't feel like a new beginning; it felt like a spotlight on a crime scene.

I sat at the head of the table, though the chair felt less like a throne and more like an anchor. My hands were flat on the polished mahogany—real mahogany, a relic of my father's era that I had never bothered to replace. Now, the grain of the wood felt like a map of a territory I no longer controlled.

"The CFO has officially flipped his proxy," Sarah whispered to me, leaning in just enough that her perfume—something crisp and clinical—cut through the stagnant air. She didn't look at me. Her eyes were fixed on her tablet, scrolling through a list of names that had once been my allies. "He’s siding with Miller. They have forty-eight percent of the vote locked in for your removal. They only need three more to reach the threshold."

"I'm still the CEO," I said. I meant for it to sound like a statement of fact, a grounding wire in the storm. Instead, it sounded like a question.

"For now," she replied, her voice barely a breath. It was the sound of a ship's hull groaning before the final snap.

Miller stood at the far end of the table. She looked energized, her posture perfect, her sharp black blazer making her look like a blade ready to drop. The chaos of the last seventy-two hours had given her something she hadn’t had in years: a clear, unobstructed path to the top. While I had been drowning in the emotional wreckage of my marriage, she had been counting votes.

"We have a new motion on the floor," Miller began, her voice cutting through the low murmur of the room. She tapped a button, and a document appeared on the digital screens embedded in the walls. "In light of the impending FTC hearing and the 'whistleblower' reports regarding the Sterling Trust, the board moves to issue a formal, global public denouncement of Isabella Vane’s recent statements."

"A denouncement?" I asked, the words tasting like copper. "On what grounds? You’re suggesting we attack the credibility of the woman who is the face of our primary merger."

"On the grounds that she is an unreliable witness with a documented history of mental instability following the bridge incident," Miller said, her tone as flat as a dial tone. "We need to protect the brand, Liam. If we don't distance ourselves from her narrative—specifically the claims regarding the Aethelgard project—we are effectively admitting to securities fraud by omission. We are telling the world that we knowingly sold them technology built on a lie."

I felt a surge of cold anger, a localized storm in the center of my chest. "She isn't unstable. She’s responding to the fact that this board tried to reclassify her as an asset. She’s reacting to being treated like a piece of hardware that can be depreciated over a five-year cycle."

"Liam, your personal feelings are irrelevant to the fiduciary duties of this room," Miller said, her eyes narrowing. "The vote is for a formal board statement labeling her claims as 'fanciful,' 'unsubstantiated,' and 'the result of neural trauma.' It’s a standard defensive maneuver. It gives our legal team the breathing room they need to challenge the subpoena."

"It’s a lie," I said. "And you know it."

"It’s a survival tactic," Miller corrected. "The floor is open for the vote. All in favor of the denouncement?"

One by one, the hands went up around the table. It was a slow-motion execution. I watched the people I had hired, the people I had promoted, the people whose children’s tuition I had helped pay, turn their backs on the truth because it was safer than the alternative. Sarah was the last. She looked at me for a split second—a flash of genuine apology, a silent I have a mortgage, Liam—and then she raised her hand.

"Motion carries," Miller said, a small, triumphant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Except for the Chair. Liam?"

I looked down at the table. I thought of Isabella’s face on the news, the way she had looked in that bunker—sharp, terrified, and utterly brilliant. She was trying to reclaim the shards of her life from the wreckage we had made of it. I thought of the Sterling Trust files I had spent all night reading—the redacted pages, the hidden accounts, the proof that my father had indeed treated her like a project, a biological bridge to a trillion-dollar valuation.

"I abstain," I said.

The room went silent. Even the hum of the server racks in the corner seemed to die down.

"Again?" Miller asked, her voice dripping with a mix of pity and contempt. "Liam, you’re the CEO. You can't just keep standing in the middle of the road while the trucks are coming. You’re going to get hit. You’re either with the company, or you’re with the 'miracle.' You can't be both."

"I won't vote against her," I said, my voice rising, gaining a grain of steel. "And I won't lie for this board just to save our share price for another forty-eight hours. If we are built on fraud, then let the audit happen."

"Then you’ve lost your last ally," Miller said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She looked at the CFO, who was sitting at the far end of the table, his arms crossed over his chest. He nodded slowly, a grim, final movement.

"Mr. Sterling," the CFO said, standing up. "As of ten minutes ago, I have officially switched my voting block. I am no longer supporting your chairmanship. I believe your inability to separate your marital interests from your fiduciary duties has become a material threat to the company’s solvency. You are compromised."

I felt the shift in the room. It was visceral, like the air had been sucked out of the space, leaving us in a vacuum. The power I had spent a decade consolidating didn't just leak away; it evaporated.

"That gives the opposition fifty-one percent," Sarah whispered, her voice trembling.

"The motion for your removal will be the first item on the agenda for Thursday’s meeting," Miller said. She stood up, smoothing the front of her suit, already assuming the mantle of authority. "You’re done, Liam. Go home. Pack your office. You’ve traded a tech empire for a woman who won't even let you through her gate. I hope the 'miracle' was worth it."

I stood up. I didn't say anything. I didn't have to. The silence was the only power I had left, a refusal to participate in the funeral. I turned and walked out of the boardroom.

I walked through the rows of glass offices, the open-plan workspaces where my employees were supposed to be innovating. Instead, they were all watching the news. I saw Isabella’s face on every screen—muted, but present. She was viral. She was the hero of a story I was no longer allowed to read. And I was the man who was about to be fired for not having the courage to either save her or destroy her. I was the middleman who had finally run out of middle ground.

As I reached the elevator, my phone buzzed in my pocket—a sharp, insistent vibration. It was a notification from the court, a high-priority legal alert.

ISABELLA VANE HAS OFFICIALLY ACCEPTED THE SUMMONS TO TESTIFY.

I leaned my forehead against the cold, brushed-steel wall of the elevator. The doors slid shut, sealing me in. She was going to talk. She was going to go to D.C., stand under those bright lights, and tell the world about the Sterling Trust. She was going to pull the trigger on the only thing I had left, and the recoil would blow the Sterling name off the map.

And the worst part—the part that made my chest feel like it was collapsing—was that I couldn't even blame her. I had given her a reason to burn the house down.

I hit the button for the garage. I wasn't going home to my empty apartment. I wasn't going to a lawyer. I was going back to that bunker. I was going to find a way to get inside, even if I had to tear the doors down with my bare hands. I needed her to see me—not as a CEO, not as a Sterling, but as the man who was finally standing on the same side of the line.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened to the dim, grey light of the parking level. My car was waiting, but the engine felt like it was idling on borrowed time. I pulled out into the Manhattan traffic, the city a blur of motion that I was no longer part of.

I was heading for the coast. I was heading for the only person who mattered, even if she hated me for it.