Chapter 5: The Boardroom
1093 Words
Lina’s eyes snapped open at the soft knock—6:00 a.m. sharp. Maria entered with a tray: coffee, fresh fruit, yogurt, and a neatly folded outfit on her arm.
“Good morning, miss,” Maria said cheerfully. “Mr. Knox says the meeting starts at eight. This should fit—professional but comfortable.”
Lina sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The bed had betrayed her sometime in the night; she’d slept deeper than expected. “Thanks. Call me Lina.”
Maria smiled and set the tray down. “Lina. Shower’s stocked. I’ll press anything else if needed.”
Alone again, Lina eyed the clothes: tailored black pants, silk blouse in deep blue, low heels. Simple, expensive. Nothing flashy. She showered quickly, dressed, and stared at herself in the mirror. The outfit transformed her—sharper, older. Like someone who belonged in boardrooms, not diners.
She ventured out at 7:15. The penthouse smelled of bacon and eggs. Asher was at the kitchen island, scrolling through a tablet, plate half-eaten. He wore a crisp navy suit, tie knotted perfectly, hair still damp from his own shower.
He glanced up as she approached. His gaze swept over her outfit—approval flickering before going neutral.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“I can get it.”
“Sit.” He nodded to the stool beside him and poured from the carafe.
Lina hesitated, then sat. The island felt too intimate—knees almost brushing. She loaded a plate: eggs, toast, fruit. Real food, no rushing.
“Sleep?” he asked.
“Like the dead.” She sipped the coffee—rich, perfect. “Your bed’s a trap.”
This time, the corner of his mouth lifted. Barely. “Good. You’ll need focus today.”
“What exactly am I looking for in this meeting?”
“Anything off. Body language. Questions that probe too deep. Victor’s people will push on the AI ethics report—try to paint it as risky. Watch who echoes him.”
“Victor Lang,” she said. “Your ex-mentor turned enemy?”
Asher’s fork paused. “You researched.”
“After you left me alone with unlimited Wi-Fi? Yeah.” She met his eyes. “He mentored you out of college, funded your first startup, then tried to steal it when you outgrew him.”
He set the fork down. “Accurate enough. He’s charming. Dangerous. Don’t underestimate him.”
The warning hung between them. Lina finished eating in silence, tension coiling.
At 7:45, they took the private elevator down—not to the lobby, but to an underground garage. A black sedan waited, driver holding the door.
The drive to Knox Technologies headquarters took twenty minutes. The building rose like a monolith—sleek glass, seventy stories, logo gleaming at the top.
Security waved them through. Another private elevator to the executive floor.
The boardroom was massive: long obsidian table, twenty leather chairs, screens embedded in the walls. Ten people already seated—mostly men in suits, a few women, all older than Lina by decades. Conversation hushed as Asher entered.
He didn’t introduce her. “Miss Brooks is consulting on special projects. She’ll observe.”
Eyes flicked to her—curious, dismissive. She took the empty chair beside Asher, back to the window.
The meeting began: financials, projections, standard updates. Lina listened, noting names from the dossiers Asher had emailed overnight—Victor’s allies marked subtly.
Then the AI ethics report came up. A silver-haired man—Harold Grant—leaned forward.
“The regulatory scrutiny is escalating,” Grant said smoothly. “This new algorithm—predictive finance modeling—borders on manipulative. Investors are nervous. Perhaps delay the rollout?”
Murmurs of agreement from three others.
Asher’s response was calm. “The model is compliant. Tested rigorously. Delay costs us market lead.”
Victor Lang wasn’t there—proxy through Grant, maybe—but his influence lingered.
Lina watched faces. Most nodded politely. One woman—Elena Vasquez—frowned at her tablet, fingers tapping nervously.
Then a younger exec, Marcus Hale, jumped in. “Harold’s right. We’ve had leaks to the press already. Anonymous tips questioning data privacy.”
Asher’s jaw tightened. “We’re addressing the leaks.”
Lina’s gaze shifted to the man across from Hale—David Chen. He hadn’t spoken yet, but when leaks were mentioned, his eyes darted to Grant. Quick. Guilty.
She leaned toward Asher, voice low. “Chen. Watch him.”
Asher didn’t react visibly, but his hand brushed the tablet, opening notes.
The debate dragged. Grant pushed harder, citing “shareholder concerns.” Votes loomed on approval.
Finally, Asher tabled it. “More data next week.”
As the room emptied, Grant lingered, approaching Asher with a smile. “Wise move. Caution preserves value.”
Asher nodded coolly. Grant left.
Alone, Asher turned to her. “Chen?”
“He flinched when leaks came up. Looked right at Grant—like checking for approval.”
Asher’s eyes sharpened. “Good catch.”
Warmth spread in her chest—unwanted. “Beginner’s luck.”
“No.” He stood, gathering files. “Instinct. We’ll dig into Chen’s access logs.”
Back in the elevator, silence. Then Asher spoke. “Lunch here or home?”
“Home.” The word slipped out before she thought. “I mean—penthouse. Need to call the hospital about Milo.”
He nodded. “Arrange his transfer today. Private facility. Better care.”
Lina’s breath caught. “You’re—”
“It’s part of the deal.” But his tone softened, almost. “He’ll be closer. You can visit anytime.”
The elevator dinged. They stepped out into the garage.
As the car pulled away, Lina stared at the passing city. Gratitude warred with suspicion. He was keeping his word. For now.
But in the boardroom, she’d seen the sharks circling.
And one of them had just revealed a fin.
Back at the penthouse that afternoon, Asher disappeared into his study. Lina called the hospital—arrangements already in motion, Milo moving tomorrow.
She wandered to the windows, city sprawling below.
A buzz from the intercom: delivery at the lobby.
Security cleared it up—a envelope, no sender.
Lina signed for it, curious.
Inside: a single photo.
Her, in the boardroom today—snapped secretly.
On the back, typed words:
You don’t belong there.
Watch your step.
Or Milo pays first.
Her blood ran cold.
She crumpled it, heart racing.
Someone knew she was here.
And they were already striking.
- Writer
