Hand over the company laptop and the corner office key, Margaret — you’re sixty-two

Tyler grinned wider, mistaking my calm for surrender. He even pulled out his phone and started filming, narrating to his followers about “watching a dinosaur go extinct in real time.” I walked to my office, packed a single framed photo of my late husband, and asked Brenda from HR to please gather everyone in the main conference room for a “transition announcement.” Tyler strutted in first, already practicing his victory speech. Then I opened my laptop and pulled up the founding documents on the projector. The room went silent as the header loaded: Whitlock & Associates, Sole Proprietor — Margaret Whitlock. “Tyler,” I said softly, “the board you answer to advises me. They don’t employ me. I own one hundred percent of this firm.” His phone slipped a little in his hand. I clicked to the next slide — the morning’s emergency filing. “Effective at nine a.m. today, I dissolved the advisory board. Including your uncle’s seat.” Gasps rippled through the room. Then the final slide: a termination letter, already signed, dated, notarized. “For cause. Creating a hostile work environment, recorded on your own livestream, which I believe is still broadcasting.” Tyler’s face drained of color as he fumbled to stop the recording — three thousand viewers had already watched him bully a grandmother out of her own company. Security stepped through the doorway behind him, the same two guards he’d threatened to call on me an hour earlier. “Gentlemen,” I said, “please help Mr. Davies collect his personal items. He has fifteen minutes.” As they escorted him past me, I leaned in just slightly. “Sweetheart,” I whispered, “the next century called. It wants women who built something to keep building it.” The bullpen erupted in applause before the elevator doors even closed. I walked back to my corner office, hung my blazer on its usual hook, and got back to work.