The mahogany doors of the boardroom swung open, but the atmosphere inside was colder than the marble floors of the lobby. It had been exactly thirty days since Alistair Croft was lowered into the earth, and the vacuum of power he left behind had sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
Victoria Vance-Croft walked in. She wore a tailored white suit–a deliberate contrast to the sea of charcoal and navy worn by the twelve men sitting around the table.
She reached the head of the table. The “Chair.”
Silence.
Usually, when the Chairman enters, the board stands. It is a ritual of corporate fealty. But today, the twelve directors–men who had served under Alistair for decades–remained seated. They shuffled papers, checked watches, and avoided her gaze. It was a synchronized act of rebellion.
Victoria didn’t sit. She placed her leather portfolio on the table with a sharp *thud*.
“Gentlemen,” Victoria said, her voice projecting with the stage-trained resonance of a former singer. “My late father-in-law believed that fear was the only way to command respect. He would have fired the first man who didn’t stand for him.”
She paused, making eye contact with the oldest director, Mr. Sterling (a distant cousin of Arthur).
“I am not Alistair,” she continued, pulling the heavy leather chair out. “But I do hold fifty-one percent of the voting stock. So you can either stand up to greet your Chairman, or you can stand up to clean out your desks. The choice is yours.”
For three agonizing seconds, no one moved. Then, the scraping of chair legs against the floor broke the tension. Slowly, grudgingly, Mr. Sterling stood up. The others followed suit.
Victoria smiled, a cold, gracious expression she had learned from Isabella. “Thank you. Please, be seated. We have work to do.”