Page 23 of Boss Me Dirty

The chairwoman—Evelyn Hart, according to my file, and she looks every bit like she eats nails for breakfast—folds her hands. “You should know the terms, Ms. Medina. The family has twenty-one days. And you report to Mr. King. He holds veto power over every strategy you propose. Nothing moves without his signature.”

Twenty-one days, and the only signature that matters belongs to a man who knows exactly how I sound when I come apart. If he vetoes me into failure, the papers won’t blame the King heir. They’ll blame the consultant from the firm the FBI just raided.

I smile tightly. “Twenty-one days won’t be a problem.”

A young man helps me connect my laptop. I click the first slide onto the enormous screen, and I don’t look at Sebastian. I look everywhere but at Sebastian.

I walk them through it. We get ahead of the story before anyone else frames it. We put a human face on the company instead of a logo. We bring in independent auditors, publicly. We turn the leak into a story about reform instead of rot. A televised interview first, within the week.

It’s good. I know it’s good. I feel the room shift: board members leaning in, a few nods, someone writing interview—yes on a legal pad.

“In conclusion,” I say, “this isn’t a Band-Aid. We change the conversation, and we lay the groundwork for the King Corporation of the future.”

“That is quite a vision,” Evelyn says. “The board endorses the approach. Mr. King?”

Every head turns.

Sebastian hasn’t looked at the screen once. He’s been looking at me.

“I’ll review it,” he says.

Three words. The room deflates like someone let the air out. Evelyn’s mouth thins, and she glances pointedly at the clock on the wall.

“Don’t review it for too long,” she says, snapping her folder shut. “Day one, everyone.”

The board files out in a rustle of relief and whispers. Two of them glance between me and Sebastian with the expressions of people who’ve seen consultants come and go, mostly go. Grace scurries after them as if the room is on fire.

That leaves three of us: me, Sebastian, and a man who has to be his brother: same jaw, gentler eyes, a Patek Philippe glinting at his wrist.

“Aaron King,” he says, offering a tired smile and a hand. “CFO. For the moment. That was a hell of a pitch.”

“Isabella. Thank you.”

“I’ll give you two the room,” Aaron says. He looks at his brother, then at me, then back at his brother, and something like curiosity flickers in his eyes. “Try not to kill each other.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

Sebastian doesn’t move from the end of the table. He stands with his hands in his pockets, the city behind him, and lets the silence stretch until I can hear the hum of the ventilation.