Chapter 8 - THE FRIDAY MORNING SUNRISE
Friday, 7:45 AM.
The morning sun broke through the retreating storm clouds, casting a sharp, golden glare across the glass-and-steel facade of Redstone Building Supply’s downtown headquarters.
The lobby was bustling with nervous energy. Executive assistants hurried past with thick leather binders; mid-level managers whispered in hushed tones near the elevators; and board members in tailored Italian suits stepped out of the private elevators, murmuring among themselves about the emergency quarterly meeting Dean Mercer had called twenty-four hours earlier.
The rumor mill was already spinning. Everyone in the building knew it was about the restructuring. Everyone knew Dean was taking full operational control.
And everyone expected me to show up with a signed divorce decree in hand, quietly stepping aside to let the new era of Redstone begin.
The private executive elevator chimed on the tenth floor.
The doors slid open.
I stepped out first.
I wasn't wearing the soft, muted pastel cardigans Dean always preferred me to wear to corporate functions. I wore a sharp, tailored navy-blue pantsuit—the exact suit I had bought for myself the year my father died, paired with polished leather pumps that clicked sharply against the marble hallway.
Behind me walked Lucas, carrying a heavy aluminum briefcase containing the duplicate digital ledgers, bank statements, and estate wills.
And behind him walked Harold Miller and Brielle Knox—both looking pale, resolute, and carrying copies of their sworn affidavits.
We walked down the glass-lined hallway toward the grand oak doors of the executive boardroom.
Through the frosted glass panels, I could see shadows moving inside.
Dean Mercer sat at the head of the mahogany conference table, casually sipping black coffee, laughing quietly with Arthur Vance, who had apparently decided to attend the meeting uninvited to witness his final victory.
The heavy oak doors swung open.
Conversations around the large mahogany table died instantly.
Dean looked up, a triumphant, condescending smile spreading across his handsome face. He rose from his executive chair, smoothing the lapel of his expensive suit, ready to claim his prize.
“Marissa,” Dean announced smoothly, his voice carrying across the silent room for all twelve board members to hear. “I’m glad you finally decided to join us. I trust you brought the signed settlement papers?”
He reached out his hand, expecting me to place the divorce decree in his palm like a dutiful, defeated wife.
I didn't move.
I didn't hand him a thing.
Instead, I walked past him, ignoring his outstretched hand entirely, and pulled out the heavy leather executive chair right beside the head of the table—the seat that had belonged to Walter Hale, and the seat Dean had tried to banish me from for three years.
I sat down.
May you like
I crossed my legs, rested my hands on the polished wood, and looked Dean dead in the eye.
“Good morning, Dean,” I said, my voice echoing clearly through the stunned silence of the boardroom. “Sit down. We have a lot of numbers to review.”
