Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Corporate Politics
Aiden
The boardroom is set for a bloodletting.
Every time I walk into this space, twenty floors up, two layers of glass between the city and my business’s softest guts, I expect to find evidence of a struggle.
I get it in the subtle things, a coffee ring on the table, the off-angle tilt of a director’s chair, the blue glow of a phone screen stashed under the table’s edge.
But today the tension is overt and physical, like there’s been a change in gravity overnight and everyone’s bones have recalibrated.
I make a point of entering before the rest of them have settled.
It’s performative, but I’ve never pretended to be above that kind of thing.
My suit’s the same as always, charcoal, narrow lapels, the shirt white and crisp at the cuffs.
The portfolio under my arm is genuine leather, not because I give a shit about status but because it is silent when I drop it onto the conference table.
But the stack of manila folders is heavier than it looks.
Eight directors today, each with their coffee and curated expressions.
Hargrove, who has served on more boards than I’ve spent years alive, and who radiates a patrician contempt that would be impressive if it weren’t so transparent.
Tran and McKinley, flanking him, each with their own axis of authority.
Tran’s the analytics guy, ruthless with numbers, while McKinley plays at being the company’s conscience but always folds when the money gets loud.
The other five are all variations on the theme, business-casual, expensive watches, the aura of people who have never had to ask permission.
I don’t sit. Instead, I drop the folders at the head of the table and wait for the last of them to finish their email check and pretend to notice me.
“We’re not going to waste time,” I say. My voice is the same one I use when negotiating with government contractors or hostile vendors.
“I know why you’re all here. There’s been a compromise of PDI’s executive security.
You’re concerned about reputational risk, legal exposure, and…
” I glance at McKinley, “potential impacts on shareholder value.”
This gets the barest twitch from Hargrove, which is how I know I’ve got their undivided attention.
“What you may not know,” I continue, “is that the security breach has already been contained. The party responsible is in custody. Law enforcement has the evidence. There will be no further leaks. I’m here to brief you, answer your questions, and clarify next steps.
But let’s make something clear, I built this company, and I retain majority control. Your role is to advise, not to direct.”
Hargrove’s jaw works side to side, like he’s chewing a piece of gristle.
But he waits. I take the top folder and open it up to reveal a stack of paper NDAs so thick it could splint a broken leg, blue tabs for signatures, red tabs for initials, and slide them, one at a time, down the length of the table.
The noise they make, a whisper of friction against the polished surface, is the only sound in the room for a good twenty seconds.
“Non-disclosure agreements,” I say. “You’ll sign them before we move forward. If you’re not comfortable, you’re free to step out and forfeit your board seat. That’s the only offer you’re getting.”
Tran picks up his copy, flips to the signature page, and starts reading the fine print. “Rather heavy-handed, isn’t it, Aiden? We’re your board, not a group of loose-lipped interns.”
Hargrove stares at the cover sheet like it’s a challenge to his authority.
McKinley’s hand shakes just enough to spill a drop of coffee into his lap.
“Is this really necessary?” Hargrove finally says, voice like cold salt.
“It’s necessary,” I say, “because trust is the only asset we can’t replace.” I don’t blink. “You’ll sign it,” I say. “Or you’ll excuse yourself and forfeit voting rights for today’s session.”
There’s a collective intake of breath, an opera of indignation, but everyone picks up a pen. I don’t bother to watch them read.
There’s a silence as they weigh the optics, walk out and look weak, or sign and admit they’re on the back foot.
One by one, the pens come out. Tran’s is an expensive Japanese rollerball, McKinley’s a chewed-up ballpoint, two of the others use PDI’s own.
When they’re done, I gather the signed pages, flip open my portfolio, and produce three eight-by-eleven color prints.
I don’t bother to pass them around. I set them face-up, side by side, at the center of the table.
The top image, my masked profile, head tipped back, the line of my throat exposed.
The second, Cat, laughing, wild hair and the heart-shaped birthmark under her ear, glass of red in her hand.
The third, the both of us, side by side, faces half-shadowed, no space between us.
The photos are artful in their own way, and it’s clear whoever shot them was after more than just blackmail, there’s a prurient satisfaction in the angle, the focus, the timing.
If they’d wanted to kill me with these, they could have.
Instead, they just gave the board a loaded gun.
I look at each director in turn. “These were obtained through an illegal intrusion at a private club. The perpetrator used proprietary software stolen from PDI during a prior employment. We identified the breach, traced the source, and have already cooperated with the DA’s office for charges.
No explicit content was transmitted. Just these, enough to imply, nothing to confirm. ”
McKinley can’t quite meet my eyes. “And Ms. Vaquer—”
“Is a victim, not a perpetrator,” I say, flat and immediate. “She will remain in her position unless she chooses otherwise. If anyone has a problem with her presence, I will expect a written explanation of how it relates to her work performance, not her personal life.”
Tran, always the numbers guy, asks, “Have we considered the possibility of pre-empting with a press release? Frame it as an internal matter, handled swiftly, prevent narrative drift—”
I tap my finger against the edge of the portfolio. “We have. PR has a draft. But we’re holding for now. Best response is no response, denies oxygen to speculation.”
Hargrove is slow, deliberate. “And what if there’s another leak? You say the threat’s contained, but if there’s a copy—”
“I have it.” My voice is iron. “Physical drive, locked down. Law enforcement has confirmed the chain of custody. If any further photos surface, I’ll accept full responsibility, but I won’t tolerate scapegoating or rumor-mongering.
Anyone who can’t operate in good faith can hand me their resignation today. ”
That’s the kill shot, and everyone at the table knows it. There’s a shifting of weight, a few exchanged looks, but no one takes the bait.
I pick up the three photos, stack them, and slide them back into the folder. Then I take out the next packet, a thick one, collated and tabbed, with a summary page on top.
“This is the ethics update. It covers all personal relationships, conflict-of-interest disclosures, and protocols for any future incidents. There is now a zero-tolerance policy for harassment, blackmail, or retaliation. There is also a dedicated channel for whistleblowing, managed by an outside party. If you have questions, ask them now.”
There are some, about legal language, about process, about what this means for our government contracts, but none of it is real resistance. They are performing due diligence, nothing more. I answer every query, precise and brief.
Eventually, McKinley says, “I think the real issue is clarity. People want to know who’s in charge. They want to know that the company is stable, not—” He glances at the closed folder. “Not at risk.”
I nod once. “That’s why I called this meeting.
To remind everyone of the command structure.
I’ll field the press questions myself,” I say.
“I’ll write the internal memo. Nobody else is to comment on or even acknowledge the rumors.
The only story we tell is that we responded swiftly, professionally, and profitably to an external threat.
If that’s insufficient, you’re free to call a vote of no confidence.
But keep in mind, as founder, CEO, and majority shareholder, I’ll win any such vote. ”
It’s overkill, but I want them to remember.
A voice from the far end, raw with disbelief: “You’re not even going to apologize? Not to us, not to the clients?”
I look them dead in the eyes, one after another. “For what? For having a private life? For defending the company against a targeted attack? If you want an apology, you can ask for it. You won’t get it, but you’re free to ask.”
There’s a pause, a low hum from the HVAC system, and then Tran says, “There’s something else. The Velvet Stag, are we pursuing legal action against them?”
I smile, just a little. “We are now their preferred security contractor. As of this morning, they’ve engaged PDI for an exclusive five-year contract, with an up-front retainer that exceeds our last government award.
We’ll run all digital operations, encrypt their back-end, and provide discrete client management.
That’s the benefit of closing the loop. You don’t just survive, you capitalize. ”
There’s a beat where this registers, and then one of the directors, Hernandez, the one who’s always in favor of growth, actually laughs. “What started as a blackmail risk is now a revenue stream. Impressive.”
“However, anyone here wants to object to that on moral grounds, you’ll have to explain to the auditors why you’re turning down ten million in profit for the appearance of chastity,” I add.
I let the phrase hang. The practical directors nod, at least one allowing themselves a small smile. Money always brings the prodigals home.
I tap the NDAs. “You leave these here. You never mention this again, not even to each other. If there’s another leak, I’ll know which one of you to fire, and I’ll do it before breakfast.”
Hargrove’s face is unreadable. For the first time, he looks old, like someone who’s run out of moves. “I still think you’re reckless,” he says. “But I can’t argue with the result.”
“You’re welcome to try,” I say, and it’s not quite a threat, but it’s close.
He just shakes his head and stands, gathering his phone and his notes.
The rest of them follow, each at their own pace.
Some nod, some don’t look at me at all. I watch them go, noting who keeps their eyes averted and who meets my gaze.
The practical ones will be the first to adapt, the sentimentalists, the last.
I collect the NDAs and place them in my portfolio. As I stand to leave, I catch my reflection in the glass: tired, but not broken. I didn’t just survive the ambush, I made them pay for the privilege.