Beyond His Cold Smile

Chapter 7: The Board Meeting

It was still early in the morning, but the air inside the finance department was thick with nervous tension. The quarterly review meeting was starting in twenty minutes and their manager, Arnold, had just called in to say he was taking a sick day.

“He did this on purpose, I’m sure of it,” Jobelle fumed, pacing back and forth. “That bald old man isn’t sick at all. He’s just running away.”

Mark let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, you know exactly how it works. I was the one who had to sit through the last one. Got torn apart and scolded right in front of the whole board.” He grinned, glancing at Jobelle’s frantic face. “Now it’s your turn.”

Jobelle yelled in frustration, grabbing her folder and slamming it hard onto her desk. “That infuriating coward! I hate him! I swear I’ll make him pay for this!”

Fenella watched them quietly from her desk, then asked curiously, “Wait, what’s this meeting really about? Why is everyone so nervous?”

Mark and Jobelle turned to look at her. She was still new only been working here a few months and had never met the board members or top executives before. Then Jobelle’s face lit up with a wide, scheming smile.

“Oh! That’s right! You haven’t met the senior executives yet, have you, Fenella?” She walked over to her desk, folder still in hand. “This is actually the perfect chance for you to meet them. They almost never come down from the fifteenth floor.”

“Jobelle, don’t even think about it,” Mark warned, then turned quickly to Fenella. “Don’t listen to her. She’s lost her mind.”

“Why not?” Jobelle planted her hands firmly on her hips. “She can do this easily! All she has to do is sit there, look professional, and nod when they talk. That’s it.”

“Is that really all?” Fenella asked simply. She straightened her shoulders. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

Jobelle clapped her hands in pure relief. “Perfect! It’s settled then! And if anyone asks just tell them Arnold is sick.”

Fenella stepped out of the elevator on the twelfth floor where the board room was located, her heart pounding hard against her ribs. She had never stood the top management before. She knocked three times gently on the glass door and stepped inside—but not a single executive glanced her way. Everyone was busy, heads down over laptops, murmuring on calls, or typing rapidly on their phones. Unsure where to sit, she stood frozen in the corner, stiff and still as a statue.

Then one man calm-faced and handsome looked over at her, still chatting pleasantly on his phone, a soft laugh in his voice. He simply gestured toward the empty seat right at the front.

She gave a small, polite nod to show her thanks, but he had already looked away, still talking into the line. The awkwardness settled heavily on her shoulders until he finally ended the call and turned his full attention to her.

“New face?” he asked.

At those two words, the whole room stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her.

“Yes, Sir. I’m Fenella. I just started a few months ago,” she answered clearly, holding herself steady and professional.

Roughly half the executives huffed dismissively and turned straight back to their work.

“Well, nice to meet you, Fenella. Which department are you from?”

“Finance, Sir,” she replied.

The woman sitting beside him let out a sharp laugh, never lifting her eyes from her laptop. “Don’t tell me, Arnold’s on sick leave again.” She smirked. “Typical.”

Before Fenella could reply, the door swung open wide. Greg walked in. His eyes darted straight to her, and a knowing smirk curled at his lips.

Greg walked slowly to the head of the table, pulled out his chair and sat down, still with that faint, knowing smirk on his face. He rested his arms on the table, glanced briefly at Fenella, but said nothing to her. He simply nodded firmly toward the others. “Let’s begin. Start the meeting, who’s presenting first?”

The meeting fell into sharp, serious business at once.

First came the Operations Director. He laid out charts on projected production output, delays from supply chain issues, and rising raw material costs. “We’re seeing a 7% increase in material prices this quarter,” he explained, pointing to his graphs. “Shipping lead times are also up for two weeks. If this continues, we’ll miss our Q3 targets.”

“Then renegotiate contracts,” Greg cut in plainly. “Or find new suppliers. Don’t come here telling me about problems come here with solutions.”

Next was the Sales Head. She reported steady growth in the local market, but numbers were dropping in provincial areas. “Sales are flat here, but down 12% in the Visayas and Mindanao regions. Competitors are undercutting our prices.”

“Are we matching their rates?” asked one executive sharply.

“Not yet, our margins are tighter there,” she replied.

“Then adjust,” Greg said. “We hold 35% market share, we can afford narrower margins to keep hold of it. Propose a revised pricing plan by the end of the week.”

Then Marketing presented their campaign results and budget requests. “The new ad campaign drove a 5% rise in inquiries, but conversion is still low. We’re asking for a bigger budget for digital ads next quarter.”

“Show me the return on the money you already spent after the last campaign,” Greg said, leaning forward. “Until you can prove the return from the last budget, you get nothing more.”

Fenella sat quietly, taking careful notes, listening to every number and decision. She watched how they challenged each other, how every claim had to be backed by facts, how mistakes were called out plainly.

Then Greg suddenly spoke her name. “Fenella. Do you know the feeling when you really hate someone, or really like someone, but you don’t know why?”

The conference room fell dead silent. Every head turned toward her. A flash of sharp irritation pricked at her chest, but she kept her expression calm and her smile polite.

“Okay,” she answered simply, she knew exactly what he meant.

Greg tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. “If I proposed to you right now and asked you to be my wife, would you say yes?”

The woman beside her cleared her throat loudly, a smug, triumphant look on her face. Fenella stared straight back at Greg, saying nothing. Seconds ticked by, but she didn’t answer.

“Let’s continue,” Greg said softly, his eyes still fixed intently on her.

When it was finally her turn, she opened her folder and spoke clearly, steady and composed. “Finance quarterly report. Total revenue is 3% above forecast. Operating expenses are within budget, but utilities and logistics costs have risen 4%—matching what operations reported. Cash flow remains healthy, but we recommend setting aside a reserve fund against rising material prices.”

She laid out the figures clearly, answered quick questions about tax provisions and budget allocations, and sat back down. No one mocked her, no one interrupted unnecessarily, they simply checked her numbers and moved on.

Greg listened closely, nodded once, and turned to the next person. He never spoke directly to her again, but his eyes rested on her for a moment longer than necessary before moving on.

When all reports were finished, Greg summarized the decisions. “Cut non-essential spending. Approve revised pricing for regional markets. Operations and Finance to meet and finalize the reserve fund. All action plans on my desk by Friday.” He stood up. “Meeting adjourned.”

Fenella snapped her folder shut, let out a slow, quiet breath, and turned the handle to open the door, relieved she’d made it through the meeting, yet still acutely aware of the weight of his gaze lingering on her back.

Then his voice cut through the quiet: “Fenella.”

She froze right there by the door, her heart hammering hard against her ribs, before she turned slowly back toward the conference room. “Sir?”

Greg stood up, closing his laptop and neatly stacking his papers. “Let’s grab lunch together.”

Her eyes darted briefly to the other executives in the room, all glancing over, before she looked back at him, he’d lifted his gaze from his work, waiting for an answer.

“Sorry, Sir,” she said, keeping her tone sweet and steady, perfectly professional. “I already have lunch plans with my team.”

Greg raised an eyebrow, his tone dropping just a little lower. “Can’t that wait?”

“No, Sir.” She gave a polite, slight nod. “Have a good lunch.”

Before he could say another word, she turned and hurried out, pressing the elevator button over and over as if the whole building were going up in flames.