I didn’t answer Derek. I just opened the folder.
The room got quiet the way rooms do when paper starts moving and nobody knows why. I slid one stapled packet to my father-in-law, one to the company attorney, and one — face down — to Derek.
“Before we vote on Derek’s offer,” I said, “I think the board should see who’s actually been operating the textile division for the last fiscal year.”
My father-in-law flipped to page two. His eyebrows climbed. Page three, they kept climbing. By page six he set down his coffee so carefully it didn’t make a sound.
The division Derek called “a dying weight” had posted a 41% revenue increase. New contracts with two hospital chains and a uniform supplier. A patent filing for a moisture-wicking blend, listed under my name as lead developer. And at the back — signed, notarized, dated eleven months ago — a quiet succession agreement Grandpa Walter had drafted before he passed, naming me as sole inheritor of his shares the moment the division returned to profit.
It had returned to profit in March.
Derek finally turned his packet over. I watched his face do the math in real time — the buyout he was trying to steal was a company he’d need my signature to even approach.
“This… this isn’t legitimate,” he stammered. “She’s a secretary.”
The attorney cleared his throat. “She’s a 38% majority shareholder as of last quarter, Mr. Hollis. And per the bylaws, she now holds Walter’s permanent board seat.”
I stood up, smoothed my blazer, and walked to the head of the table. Derek hadn’t moved. I picked up his lowball offer, folded it neatly in half, and slid it back to him.
“Step aside, sweetheart,” I said softly. “The adults need to talk about real money.”
My sister filed for divorce on a Tuesday. I kept the desk. I just moved it three floors up.
