The Liebert's Protocol

The Boardroom Disaster

The boardroom was a vacuum of silence. Twenty-four men, the architects of the Liebert billion-dollar empire, sat around a table that looked like it had been carved from a single, ancient tree. Every head turned in unison as I entered. Every pair of eyes—sharp, cynical, and heavy with doubt—landed on me.

I felt the sting of my blisters and the throb of my jet-lagged heart. Andrew stood behind me like a cold shadow, his silence more judgmental than any word could be. I sat in the heavy leather chair at the head of the table. It was too big, making me feel like a child playing dress-up.

"Miss Liebert," Mr. Sterling began, sliding a thick stack of papers toward me. "The Northern ports acquisition requires an immediate signature. Your grandfather said you were ready to handle the transition."

I stared at the papers. The lines of text blurred into black streaks. All I could see was the image of that apartment in Beijing—the betrayal that was currently eating me alive. I wanted to scream, to cry, to run away. But if I did that, they would know I was weak.

"I’m not signing that," I said, my voice ringing out with a defiant, childish tilt.

The room went silent. Mr. Sterling blinked in confusion. "I beg your pardon? This is a time-sensitive loan—"

"And I’m a time-sensitive person," I interrupted, leaning back and crossing my arms. I felt a wave of nausea from hunger and exhaustion. "I want breakfast. Now."

"We are in the middle of a fiscal crisis, Marie," another director snapped, his face reddening.

"And I’m in the middle of a hunger crisis!" I shot back. I wasn't being a CEO; I was being a girl who had lost everything and refused to be told what to do by strangers. "I want crepes. With berries. And a latte with extra sugar. Andrew, go get it."

I turned to look at Andrew. His expression was unreadable, his eyes narrowed as he watched my outburst. I didn't know then that he and my grandfather had been monitoring my every move in China—that they were watching my collapse before I even boarded the plane. To me, he was just a man watching a spoilt heiress being difficult.

"Miss Liebert," Andrew’s voice was a low, dangerous warning. "The board's time is—"

"My time!" I snapped, my lip trembling. I had to be a brat, because if I stopped for one second, I would fall apart. "Grandpa said you were my shadow, right? Well, my shadow should know I’m hungry. No crepes, no signature."

The directors began to whisper. Spoilt. Disgrace. Childish. Andrew leaned down, his face inches from mine, his scent of mint and expensive cologne clouding my senses. "What are you doing?" he hissed. "You look like a fool."

"Then let me be a fool with a full stomach," I whispered back, staring him down even as my eyes burned with unshed tears. "Go. Get. The. Food."

Andrew’s jaw tightened. He gave a sharp, stiff bow that felt more like a challenge than an act of service. "Fine. If the CEO requires a snack, she shall have it."

He turned and strode out, the doors slamming behind him.

For the next twenty minutes, I sat in that oversized chair, ignoring the angry glares. I picked at my cuticles, fighting the urge to sob. I was acting like a brat because it was the only shield I had left.

When Andrew finally returned with a silver tray, he set it down with a heavy thud. "Your crepes, Miss Liebert," he said, his voice dripping with icy sarcasm.

I looked at the food. I took one bite, but the sweetness felt like ash in my mouth. The adrenaline was fading, leaving only the raw, jagged ache of the betrayal I had flown halfway across the world to escape. I couldn't do this. I couldn't sit here and pretend to care about ports when my whole world was gone.

"I changed my mind," I said, pushing the tray away so fast the latte splashed onto the white cloth. "I’m tired. I’m going to my room."

I stood up and bolted for the door before the first tear could fall. I didn't look back at the shocked faces of the board or the frozen, calculating look on Andrew’s face. I just ran.