Chapter 30
Anthony
The boardroom smells like cold coffee and fear.
Faces are arranged in careful neutrality along the table, watching me as I sit down at the head.
They’re all pretending this is just governance, just procedure, just the tidy mechanics of a public company.
But the tension is thick enough to taste because everyone in this room knows what the vote actually is. A public execution.
Karen sits three seats down from me, perfectly composed, legs crossed, hands folded as if she’s waiting for a fight.
She’s wearing a pale suit that makes her look like she’s at church, not a board meeting.
Her mouth is calm. Her eyes are sharp. Joseph Brant is across the table, watching quietly, the only one here who looks at me like a man instead of a machine.
Motions are read. Language turns sterile.
I let it. I wait. I watch. Karen makes her last play in the calmest voice she owns.
“We can handle this quietly,” she says. “To protect the company. To protect you.” She turns her gaze on me, softening it like she’s offering mercy. “I’m willing to withdraw. Voluntarily. No spectacle.”
A few board members shift, hopeful. They like the word quietly.
They like the idea that this mess can be swept under a rug expensive enough to hide it.
Karen’s tone stays smooth. “In exchange,” she continues, “for a reasonable severance and a non-disparagement agreement. We avoid litigation. We avoid headlines. We move on.” She smiles slightly, as if this is benevolence.
It isn’t. It’s extortion with better posture.
I meet her gaze and feel nothing but cold. “No,” I say. The single syllable cuts through the room so cleanly that there’s a palpable pause.
Karen’s expression tightens. “Anthony—”
“No payout,” I continue, voice steady. “No quiet exit. No arrangement.” I incline my head just enough to signal the end of negotiations.
“You don’t get rewarded for sabotage.” A ripple runs along the table.
It’s unease, curiosity, and the faint thrill of people about to witness something ugly.
Karen’s lips press together. “You’re making a mistake,” she says softly, for the room.
“I offered you the least damaging outcome.”
“You offered yourself an escape hatch,” I reply.
“I’m closing it.” I slide a folder across the table toward the group, a thick packet with tabs, timestamps, screenshots, and emails.
Receipts. I’ve learned the hard way that truth only matters when it’s documented.
Papers get passed out like candy. A quiet cough.
A brow lifts. Eyes move. I speak while they read, my voice calm enough to feel surgical.
“Over the past several months, Ms. Bartley has held repeated meetings with Aidan Snow and representatives from his firm,” I say.
“Those meetings were not disclosed. They were not authorized. And they were not incidental.” Karen’s smile doesn’t move, but her eyes sharpen to slits. I keep going.
“Attached, you’ll all find overlap between her retained legal counsel and Snow’s counsel, visitor logs showing their staff on our premises under false pretexts, and communications that outline a strategy to damage Voss & Bartley’s reputation in order to force a leadership change.
” I watch faces as they absorb it: the board member who goes pale, the one who tries to hide his interest, the one who looks at Karen like she’s suddenly radioactive.
Karen finally speaks, tone clipped. “Conjecture.”
I don’t blink. “Evidence.”
She leans forward. “You’re going to pretend you’re innocent,” she says, voice sharp now. “After what you’ve done? After the scandal? After—”
“The scandal you manufactured,” I cut in. “With an accomplice.”
Joseph’s voice tightens. “Ms. Bartley, do you deny these meetings?”
Karen looks around the room. For the first time, the confidence in her posture looks brittle. She’s realizing the room isn’t hers.
“I deny wrongdoing,” she says. “Anthony is weaponizing private information—”
I tilt my head slightly. “You mean the private information you threatened to leak unless I chose you?”
A hush drops. Joseph Brant’s gaze snaps to me in warning, but I don’t care. I’m done protecting her lies.
Karen’s face flushes, anger flaring bright. “That’s not what I—”
“That’s exactly what you did,” I say, voice low and lethal. “You threatened a woman carrying my child. You weaponized her vulnerability for leverage. And you want compensation for your restraint.” The room feels colder. Two board members exchange a look that says We cannot be associated with this.
A vote is called. Hands lift. One by one.
Clean, decisive. Karen’s hand stays down.
Mine does not. The decision lands with the dull finality of a gavel: removal from the board.
Immediate. Effective. Karen’s face doesn’t collapse into grief.
It sharpens into hatred. She stands slowly, gathering her bag with deliberate care, as if she can still control how she leaves.
“You think you’ve won,” she says, voice quiet enough to be venomous.
“You haven’t.” I look at her without expression. “Get out.”
Karen’s eyes burn as she turns and walks away, heels clicking toward the door like gunshots.
The room exhales in cautious relief, but I don’t let myself soften.
Not yet. “I won’t be staying,” I say, rising.
Several heads turn. Jean stands, pushing the papers toward me. “There are still things to discuss—”
“I have something else to manage,” I say, then pause, feeling Brant’s gaze on me, that line from the gala threading through my mind like a hook.
I correct myself with a faint, private smile.
“I have something else to show up for.” Brant’s mouth twitches.
I catch his eye and give him the smallest wink — an admission and a promise all at once.
Then I leave the boardroom without waiting for permission.
————
The flower shop smells like life. Green stems, clean water, rich earth, and a sharp sweetness that hits the back of my throat. The florist recognizes me instantly and starts to ask what I want.
“Her favorite,” I say.
She doesn’t need more instruction. I’ve done this enough times in the last two weeks that I’m a regular.
She brings me lilies and pale roses, something soft and fragrant that looks like dawn.
I hold them carefully, absurdly aware of how ridiculous it is that a man who can fire a board member without raising his voice is handling flowers like they might bruise.
On the drive home, I don’t check my phone once. I don’t let myself drift into strategy. For the first time in weeks, my mind feels singular. Purposeful. Simple. April.
When I step into the penthouse, the quiet greets me like a held breath. The lights are dim, the city glowing beyond the windows. The air smells faintly like soap and her shampoo, a scent that shouldn’t belong here and somehow does.
I move through the living room and find her on the sofa, curled on her side under the blanket, hair spilled across the cushion, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting over her stomach like a vow.
She’s asleep. The sight hits me so hard I have to stop moving for a moment.
She looks peaceful. Vulnerable. Real. Mine, in the only way that matters.
I set the flowers gently on the coffee table.
I loosen my tie, quiet as a thief, and kneel beside the sofa.
My hand hovers over her shoulder, tempted to fully wake her, but I don’t.
I don’t shake her. I don’t startle her. Instead, I brush my knuckles lightly along her cheek, a soft touch meant to coax, not command.
“April,” I whisper.
Her lashes flutter. She shifts, making a small sound, half-asleep, a little annoyed at being pulled from whatever dream she was in.
I smile despite myself. “Wake up for me, princess,” I murmur.
Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first. Then she sees me, sees my face, close to hers.
Sees the softness I don’t show anyone else.
For a moment, she just blinks, sleepy and warm, like she’s checking whether I’m real.
“Hey,” I say softly, my lips tilting up.
“Hi,” she rasps back to me.
I lean closer, voice so quiet it feels like a confession.
“I know you wanted a big ring,” I whisper.
“But I figured you wouldn’t want a big proposal.
” Her lips part, a breath catching. Before she can speak, I take the ring box from my pocket and place it in her hand, closing her fingers around it as if I’m giving her something sacred and trusting her not to drop it.
I press a kiss to her forehead. “I love you,” I grin, keeping my voice soft.
Her gaze drifts down to her hand, then to me.
I lift it by her wrist and kiss her knuckles, one by one, reverent.
“Open it,” I tell her softly.
She fumbles with the latch, still half-dreaming, then flips it up.
The diamond catches the low light and throws it back in shards, little flecks of light covering her cheeks.
April’s sleepy confusion melts into a grin so wide it makes my chest ache.
And when she looks up at me, eyes shining with mischief and joy and disbelief, it feels like the whole world finally narrows into the only thing worth fighting for.