Just sign the resignation, Diane, before I have security drag you out by that

I picked up the pen. Brett’s grin widened. ‘Smart choice, grandma.’ I uncapped it slowly, then set it down beside the paper, untouched. ‘Brett,’ I said, ‘before I sign, you should know three things.’ He rolled his eyes and leaned back. ‘Make it quick.’ ‘First,’ I said, ‘the Henderson account, the one funding your new Tesla lease, requires dual authentication every Monday at 9 a.m. Mr. Pierce retired Friday. I’m the only remaining signatory.’ His smile flickered. ‘Second, the audit your father postponed last quarter? The IRS rescheduled it. For Wednesday. I have the email.’ I slid my phone across the table, screen up. He didn’t touch it. ‘Third,’ I said, standing and smoothing my blazer, ‘I recorded this meeting. California is a two-party consent state, but my contract, the one your father signed in 2003, includes a clause permitting documentation of any termination conversation. Page eleven. I helped draft it.’ Brett’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. The door behind him swung open and his father walked in, face the color of old paper, holding his own phone. ‘Brett,’ he said quietly, ‘go home.’ ‘Dad, she’s bluffing, she’s just a—’ ‘GO HOME.’ Mr. Halden turned to me, exhaled, and pulled out the chair Brett had just vacated. ‘Diane. Whatever you want. Name it.’ I picked up the resignation letter, tore it cleanly in half, and let the pieces drift onto the table. ‘A new title,’ I said. ‘Chief Financial Officer. Brett’s salary. And his parking space.’ He nodded before I finished the sentence. As I walked out, I passed Brett in the hallway, slumped against the wall, staring at the carpet like it had betrayed him. I didn’t look back. The thrift-store blazer, by the way, was Armani. He just never bothered to ask.