Chapter Six - The Boardroom
1091 Words
On my eighth day at Voss Industries, Carla tells me I'm presenting to the executive committee.
I say: "I've been here eight days."
She says: "I'm aware."
End of discussion.
* * *
The conference room on thirty-eight seats, comfortably accommodating twenty people.
By two o'clock, it is eleven.
The Harmon deal team. Two people from Legal. The CFO, who is six feet four and apparently calls Carla ma'am. Various senior directors whose names I spent last night memorizing.
And at the head of the table: Damien Voss.
I did not expect him to be here.
My wolf, on the other hand, did not seem surprised at all.
He looks up when I walk in. That half-second — the one that nobody else in the room would notice — where his expression is not the composed, untouchable CEO expression he wears for everyone.
Then it is.
"Whenever you're ready, Ms. Adkins," he says.
I connected my laptop.
I begin.
* * *
I have presented before.
Small groups. Small stakes. Small rooms where getting it wrong meant an awkward follow-up email and nothing more.
This is not that.
But here is the thing about being the woman who drove south at three in the morning with one bag and nothing but a decision:
I am very, very good at doing things that scare me.
I built this audit from nothing. I know every figure, every cross-reference, every clause. When the CFO asks me a sharp question about the international vendor timelines, I have the answer ready — I anticipated it two days ago and built it into my contingency notes.
When one of the Legal team pushes back on my risk categorization, I explain my reasoning.
He reconsiders.
He nods.
I keep going.
Twenty minutes.
I have been aware, the entire time, that Damien has not said a single word.
He is just watching.
The way he watches — focused, still, completely present — makes the back of my neck warm. I refuse to look at him directly.
I look at everyone else.
I finish.
There is a beat of silence.
Then the CFO says — and I will remember this for the rest of my life — "This is the cleanest audit I've seen out of this department in three years."
He says it simply. Factually.
Like it's just a thing that is true.
Something happens in my chest.
Not the bond.
Something older than the bond.
The thing I drove south for.
The thing I woke up early for and stayed late for and poured three years of precise, relentless, uncompromising work into.
Someone looked at what I built and called it the best.
Not because of who I was.
Not because of a bond, or a pack, or a man who chose to keep me.
Because of the work.
Just the work.
Just me.
"Thank you, Ms. Adkins," Damien says. "That will be all for this item."
I gather my laptop.
I do not look at him on my way out.
I know that if I do, I will not be able to keep my face the way it needs to be.
* * *
— Damien —
I watched her walk into a room of eleven people who outranked her in every formal sense.
I watched her not be intimidated by a single one of them.
I watched the CFO — who is six-four and has been in this industry for thirty years and does not give compliments — tell her she had produced the best work his department had seen in three years.
And I watched her face when she heard it.
That brief, controlled, careful moment of — not surprise. Not gratitude. Something fiercer than that.
Recognition.
Like she had always known this was in her, and was simply glad the world had finally caught up.
I have spent thirty-four years being the most composed person in every room.
I have never once, in thirty-four years, had to fight the urge to smile at someone else's achievement.
I am fighting it now.
I win. Barely.
After the room clears, Marcus finds me in the corridor.
"Vane called again," he says.
I go still.
"What did he say?"
"He said—" Marcus paused, like he is deciding how to phrase it. "He said You should be careful. That some bonds don't go away just because one side decides to ignore them."
Some bonds don't go away.
I think about this.
Lucas Vane publicly rejected his fated mate three years ago. He chose a political alliance over her. The alliance failed. And now he is calling my office to tell me that some bonds won't go away.
The audacity of that.
The breathtaking, extraordinary audacity.
"Tell him," I say, "that Ms. Adkins called him last night. And whatever needed to be said has been said. And that if he contacts this office again, I will be speaking with my legal team."
Marcus makes a note. "And the bond comment?"
I look at him.
"He's right," I say simply. "Some bonds don't go away."
Marcus blinks. "Sir?"
"The difference," I say, "is that I am not going to reject mine."
I walked back to the elevator.
Forty-second floor.
I have work to do.
But for the first time in thirty-four years of living, I sit down at my desk and find that the work can wait.
I pick up my phone instead.
I assume the presentation went the way it deserved to. The CFO is not known for saying things he doesn't mean. — D.V.
I sent it and set the phone down.
Her reply came in three minutes.
He called it the cleanest audit in three years. I'm going to be honest — I cried a little on the elevator. Don't tell anyone. — M.A.
And there it is.
For the first time.
A c***k in the wall.
Small. Deliberate. Offered carefully, like something she had decided to trust me with.
I looked at the message for a long time.
Then I type back.
Your secret is safe. For what it's worth — you earned every word of it. — D.V.
And then, because I have been careful and controlled and professional for thirty-four years, and some things are worth saying plainly:
I'm glad you're here, Maya.
I sent it.
I put the phone down.
Outside, the city is doing what it always does.
But something has changed.
Something small, and deliberate, and careful.
A c***k in a wall.
And light, just beginning, to come through.
- Writer
