PRESENT
GRAYSON’S POV:
My office was spacious enough to not feel crowded—even with the entire board filing in like vultures circling fresh meat.
“Mr. Vexley,” Barbara McCasey—an elderly woman with greying hair and the only board member I halfway respected—spoke first. “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to move this to the conference room?”
“No, Barbara.” I leaned back, fingers steepled, watching as they took their seats in the chairs that had hurriedly been arranged fifteen minutes ago. “Since you’re all so intent on dissecting my personal life like it’s company property, we’ll do it here.”
Barabara pursed her lips but didn’t argue. It took another excruciating minute for these grown adults to arrange themselves. Like children called to the principal’s office.
“Mr. Vexley,” one of them
