Chapter 9 #2
"You want to talk about professionalism?
" I ask, taking another step forward. "Let's discuss the Chen retirement party where you showed up forty minutes late, visibly intoxicated, and told the guest of honor that his wife looked 'surprisingly good for her age.
' I spent the rest of that evening doing damage control while you hid in the coat room.
Or the Morrison product launch where you forgot to confirm the AV equipment rental and I had to personally drive to three different suppliers at six in the morning to source replacement projectors. Or the—"
"Enough!" Richard's voice cracks across the room like a whip, his face now an alarming purple that suggests his blood pressure has reached genuinely dangerous levels.
"You ungrateful, delusional, I gave you a chance when no one else would hire you.
I built you from nothing. Everything you are is because of me! "
"You hired me because I was desperate enough to accept a salary twenty percent below market rate.
You kept me because I consistently delivered results that masked your fundamental incompetence.
And you underpaid me because you knew I couldn't afford to leave without another position lined up, which I couldn't secure because you deliberately sabotaged my professional reputation by ensuring I never received direct credit for my work. "
The silence that follows is suffocating.
I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, feel the flush of heat crawling up my neck, taste the sharp metallic tang of adrenaline on my tongue.
Some distant, still-professional part of me is cataloging this moment as a spectacular act of career suicide, the kind of bridge-burning that gets whispered about in industry circles for years afterward.
But I can't stop.
Three years of swallowed frustration, of forced smiles, of watching mediocre men take credit for my brilliance pours out of me in a torrent I can't control and don't want to.
"I run your entire agency, Richard," I say quietly, and somehow the reduction in volume makes the words land harder.
"I manage your vendor relationships because you consistently forget to pay invoices on time.
I handle your client communications because your response time averages four business days and your emails contain embarrassing typos.
I maintain your calendar, your reputation, and your profit margins.
Without me, Pinnacle Events would have collapsed eighteen months ago when the Zhao wedding nearly imploded because you double-booked the venue and I had to negotiate an alternative space at two in the morning. "
Richard's breathing has become audibly ragged.
His hands are shaking. "You have no idea what you've just done," he hisses, his voice low and venomous.
"No one in this industry will hire you after I'm done.
I will personally ensure that your name becomes synonymous with unprofessional conduct.
You'll never work another event in this city. "
"Actually," Thrall's voice cuts through the tension like a blade, deep and measured and carrying the absolute authority of someone accustomed to ending conversations permanently, "she'll be working exclusively for Horde Tech.
As our Director of Corporate Experience.
At a salary triple what you've been paying her, plus equity and full benefits. "
I spin around, my mouth falling open. Thrall is standing exactly where I left him, his massive arms crossed over his chest, he locked on Richard with pure, predatory contempt. The other executives are watching with barely concealed satisfaction, several of them nodding in agreement.
"That position doesn't exist," I manage to say, my brain struggling to process this information while still riding the adrenaline wave of my confrontation.
"It does now," Thrall replies, his gaze flicking to me briefly before returning to Richard.
"I'm creating it. Effective immediately.
Ms. Lin has demonstrated exceptional competence under extraordinary pressure, strategic thinking that rivals my senior leadership team, and the ability to command respect from individuals significantly larger and more aggressive than herself.
These are precisely the qualifications I require. "
Richard makes a sound like a wounded animal. "You can't just—this is—she's under contract with Pinnacle Events for another eight months!"
"I've reviewed the contract," Thrall says mildly, though there's nothing mild about the way he's looking at Richard, like a man calculating the most efficient method of removing an obstacle.
"It's terminable by either party with two weeks' notice.
However, given that Ms. Lin has just outlined multiple incidents of workplace misconduct, harassment, and potential fraud, I suspect she has grounds for immediate termination without notice.
Would you like me to have my legal team explore that option? "
"She's fired!" Richard shouts, his voice climbing into a register that suggests genuine hysteria. "You're fired, Romee! Pack your bags! I want you out of my agency by the end of business today!"
The words hang in the air between us, suspended in that peculiar stillness that follows a catastrophic rupture, the kind of silence that feels almost audible in its intensity.
I should feel devastated. Panicked. Terrified about the complete destruction of my career stability and professional safety net.
All of it, gone in a handful of sentences.
Eight months of wages I'd been counting on.
The professional reputation I'd meticulously built within Pinnacle Events.
The carefully constructed trajectory I'd mapped out, each promotion and successful event a calculated step toward partnership.
Instead, I feel light.
Weightless, as though someone has suddenly released the invisible cables that have been tethering me in place. The clipboard I've been gripping feels almost foreign in my hands now, no longer a shield or a weapon, but just paper and plastic and the ghost of all those obsessive checkmarks.
Free.
That's the word that rises through me, unexpected and entirely unwelcome because it contradicts everything I've built my adult life around.
Freedom doesn't pay rent. Freedom doesn't fund the retirement account I've been meticulously maximizing.
Freedom is what people with safety nets indulge in, and I've never been the type to have one of those.
And yet, here it is.
"Excellent," I say calmly, meeting Richard's furious gaze with perfect composure.
"I'll expect my final paycheck, including the accumulated overtime you've never compensated me for, delivered electronically within seventy-two hours as required by state labor law.
I'll also expect the return of my personal vendor contacts which you've been storing on agency systems without permission, and a formal letter of termination that accurately reflects this was your decision, not mine.
If any of these items are delayed or inaccurate, my attorney will be in touch. "
"You don't have an attorney," Richard sneers, but his confidence is wavering, his eyes darting between me and the wall of massive Orcs watching this exchange with expressions ranging from amused to openly hostile.
"She does now," Thrall says. "Several, actually. My entire legal department is at her disposal."
Richard turns an even more alarming shade of purple, his mouth opening and closing as he searches for some final devastating blow, some parting shot that will reassert his dominance and put me back in my place.
But there's nothing left to say. He's lost this confrontation so completely, so publicly, that any further engagement will only deepen his humiliation.
He turns on his heel and storms toward the door, his expensive shoes squeaking against the polished floor in a way that would be comical if I weren't still vibrating with residual adrenaline.
"Romee," he calls back from the doorway, his voice dripping with venom. "You'll regret this. You have no idea what you're walking away from."
I look at him, really look at him, this small, petty man who's controlled my professional life for years through manipulation and fear and the calculated exploitation of my desperation.
And I know with sudden, crystalline clarity that I've never respected him.
Not once. I've feared him, resented him, tolerated him, but I have never, for a single moment, thought he was worthy of the authority he wielded over me.
"Actually, Richard," I say quietly, my voice steady in a way that surprises even me, "I know exactly what I'm walking away from.
Every manipulative conversation, every late night you demanded I reorganize an entire event with six hours' notice, every time you took credit for my work and left me to clean up your messes.
The only regret I have is that I didn't do this three years ago, when I first realized you were never going to change. "
The silence that follows is deafening, absolute and complete, the kind of quiet that settles over a room when everyone collectively realizes something irreversible has just happened. I can feel their eyes on me, their attention pressing down like humidity before a storm.
Then Vrok starts clapping, the sound of his massive palms coming together like thunderclaps, deep and resonant and utterly unexpected.
It's slow at first, deliberate, the sound of his massive hands coming together like thunderclaps.
Garak joins in. Then another executive. Then another.
Within seconds, the entire room erupts into applause, these enormous Orcs, who I've been herding and managing and threatening with canceled food for days, standing and cheering like I've just won a championship bout.
I stand frozen in the center of the lodge, wearing Thrall's shirt, my career in smoking ruins behind me, my future terrifyingly uncertain, and I start laughing.
It's not a polite laugh. It's not professional or controlled or appropriate for a corporate setting.
It's the kind of raw, slightly hysterical laughter that comes from surviving something you thought might actually kill you, from walking through fire and discovering you're still whole on the other side.
Thrall crosses the distance between us in three long strides, his hands coming up to frame my face with a gentleness that seems impossible given his size. His thumbs brush away tears I didn't realize I'd started crying, and he searches mine and makes my breath catch.
"Are you alright?" he asks quietly, the question meant only for me despite the room full of witnesses.
"I have no idea," I answer honestly, my voice shaking. "I just destroyed my entire career. I should be terrified. I should be having a complete breakdown. But I—I feel—"
"Free," he finishes, and something in his expression shifts, softens, becomes almost unbearably tender. "You feel free."
"Yes," I whisper, and then I'm kissing him, right there in front of his entire executive team, my hands fisting in his shirt as I pull him down to meet me, channeling every ounce of adrenaline and relief and terrifying exhilaration into the pressure of my mouth against his.
He responds immediately, one hand sliding into my hair while the other wraps around my waist, lifting me completely off the ground as he deepens the kiss with an applause around us fade into white noise.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and flushed and thoroughly aware that I've just added "making out with the CEO in front of his staff" to my list of spectacularly unprofessional decisions today.
"So," I say, my voice slightly unsteady, "about that job offer..."
Thrall's smile is sharp and satisfied and entirely predatory. "We'll negotiate the details. After you finish the afternoon session. I believe you threatened to cancel the wagyu skewers if anyone was late."
I check my watch, the expensive, practical timepiece I bought myself last year as a consolation prize for another missed promotion, and feel my eyes widen.
"It's 1:47," I announce, my professional instincts snapping back into focus with the precision of a steel trap. "Everyone has exactly thirteen minutes to be on the south lawn for trust exercises, or I'm making good on that threat."
The mass exodus toward the door is gratifying.
Thrall doesn't release me, his arms still wrapped around my waist, his expression amused and possessive in equal measure. "You're terrifying," he observes. "It's extremely attractive."
"I need to change," I inform him, trying to sound stern despite the way my heart is still racing from the kiss. "I can't lead a corporate retreat in your t-shirt."
"You absolutely can," he counters, but he sets me down carefully, his hands lingering on my hips. "But if you insist on maintaining your professional image, your luggage is still in your original cabin. I'll have someone retrieve it."
"I can get it myself—"
"Romee. You just fought a battle that required significant emotional labor. Let me handle the logistics. You've been handling everyone else's logistics for years. It's someone else's turn."
The words hit somewhere tender, somewhere I didn't realize was bruised until this moment.
"Okay," I agree softly, and watch something like satisfaction flash across his features before he pulls out his phone to send a quick message.
Twelve minutes later, I'm back in professional attire—tailored pants, a crisp blouse, sensible flats—my hair restored to its usual sleek control. I check my reflection in the cabin mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me.
She looks the same as always.
But everything underneath has fundamentally changed.
I grab my clipboard, smooth my clothes one final time, and head toward the south lawn where twenty-three massive Orcs are waiting, on time, ready to participate in activities they absolutely hate.
Because I told them to.
And for the first time in three years, I'm doing this for myself.
Not for Richard.
Not for some impossible standard of perfection.
For me.
The afternoon session goes flawlessly.