Chapter 7 - The Ghost of the Boardroom
The executive conference room on the fourth floor was designed to intimidate. Paneled entirely in dark Siberian walnut, with a monolithic quartz table that stretched twenty feet down the center, it offered no warmth—only a panoramic view of a city that bowed to the Blackwood name.
Arthur Hale sat at the far end of the long table, looking smaller than he had the previous night. His silver hair was slightly disheveled, his expensive silk tie loosened at the collar, and the skin beneath his eyes hung in dark, bruised pouches. When the heavy double doors clicked open, he lurched halfway out of his leather chair, his face contorted in a desperate mix of fury and pleading.
"Ronan! Thank God—you have to listen to me, this is madness—" Arthur started, his voice cracking as he hurried toward the entrance.
Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
It wasn't Ronan Blackwood who walked through the door.
Ivy Lancaster stepped into the conference room with slow, measured strides. She wore her charcoal-grey designer pantsuit with absolute poise, her shoulders straight, her dark hair catching the recessed lighting of the ceiling. Behind her walked two towering security guards who flanked the entrance like stone statues, and trailing a step behind them was Ronan himself, hands in his pockets, watching the scene with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing an experiment.
Arthur stared at her, his jaw dropping open. For three long seconds, his brain struggled to reconcile the image of the plus-size maid who had bled onto a navy uniform less than twenty-four hours ago with the commanding woman standing before him in bespoke European wool.
"You..." Arthur breathed, his voice trembling as rage surged over his shock. "You're the—the domestic! The servant from the ballroom! What is the meaning of this? Security! Throw this woman out of the building!"
"The security guards are currently taking their orders from me, Mr. Hale," Ivy said, her voice ringing clear and steady across the cavernous room. She walked all the way to the head of the quartz table, pulled out the primary executive chair, and sat down with effortless grace.
Arthur turned frantically toward Ronan, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Ronan, have you lost your mind? You brought a maid into a corporate boardroom? Is this some kind of sick joke? Vivienne is weeping in her room because of this—this peasant—and you're letting her sit at the executive table?"
Ronan walked slowly to the head of the table, standing just behind Ivy’s chair. He rested one hand casually on the high leather back, his dark gaze locking onto Arthur with chilling indifference.
"Ivy is no longer a maid, Arthur," Ronan said softly. "She is my Chief Financial Officer. And as of ten minutes ago, her signature is the only one required to liquidate your remaining corporate assets."
Arthur staggered back as if he had been physically struck, his hip bumping against the heavy quartz table. "Liquidate? You can't do that! Our families—our agreements—my daughter was supposed to be your wife!"
"Your daughter raised a riding crop against an innocent person inside my home," Ronan replied, his voice dropping an octave into a register that made the air in the room turn glacial. "And you spent years cooking the books of your charitable foundations to fund your offshore accounts in the Caymans. My CFO compiled the exact forensic audit that proved it."
Arthur’s face turned an alarming shade of grey. He looked from Ronan to Ivy, realization finally crashing down upon him like a tidal wave. "You... you planned this. You infiltrated my company through the estate—you placed her there on purpose!"
"I didn't need to place her anywhere, Arthur," Ronan corrected, a faint, dangerous smile touching his lips. "You hired her yourself three years ago through an agency, completely unaware that she was the senior auditor your nephew framed to cover up his embezzlement. Karma has a peculiar way of returning to its source."
Ivy opened a sleek leather portfolio on the table, sliding a single sheet of paper across the polished quartz toward the older man.
May you like
"Sign the asset transfer, Mr. Hale," Ivy said, her voice as cold and sharp as broken glass. "Or my legal team files the federal indictment for corporate wire fraud before the stock market closes for lunch. The choice is yours. But unlike last night, I won't be taking the blame for your mistakes."
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