Bound by Honor *2ND DRAFT*

III

February 10

Estella POV

You can hear my heels clicking against the marble floor, sharp as a metronome counting down the seconds to their discomfort. Easton trails behind me like a shadow that knows how to bite.

Several of the men rise to shake my hand—how polite, how utterly predictable. I ignore them. A handshake doesn't prove loyalty, it just spreads germs. I take my seat at the head of the table, Easton lowering himself beside me like a silent threat. The rest of the room follows my lead—though not all. A few stay seated when I walked in, pretending they were suddenly glued to their chairs. Staring at me like I'm some unwelcome guest in my own home. How charming.

My eyes sweep the table. A sea of men in black suits, most of which are two sizes too small. Buttons straining, ties choking. Nothing like a man who can't even dress himself properly yet thinks he can run a company. If they can't manage fabric, how will they manage millions?

Easton clears his throat, his voice smooth but edged with steel. "Today we're discussing the future of this company. Estella will be leading today, and soon, the company altogether. I suggest you listen before making assumptions."

There it is—the warning shot. I don't miss the way a few men nod quickly, eyes darting like schoolboys caught cheating. But the ones to my right? Statues. Great. The Ignorant Butt-Head Brigade. Always a pleasure. I flip open my notebook, neat handwriting staring back at me. My own armor. "The main things I want to talk about today are the company's image, some investment strategies—which is why you're all here—and the modernization of the company."

Beside me, Easton gives a small nod. It's subtle encouragement, but it's enough to ground me. The tension in the room could choke a horse. Thick, sticky, and clinging to every word I say. We move into investments, Easton handling the first numbers. His voice fills the space, smooth and commanding, but I can see it—the sideways glances, the twitch of lips, the shifting shoulders. The whispers start as soon as the numbers leave his mouth. I lean back slightly in my chair, folding my hands on the table.

Men whispering at a board meeting—now where have I seen that before? Oh, right. Every single time. They talk as if I can't see them, like I don't notice their heads bent together. Newsflash, gentlemen: you're not subtle, and this isn't a middle school cafeteria. I keep my expression polite, almost sweet. Inside, I'm already sharpening the knife I'll cut them with later.

The questions come like stones being lobbed across a river—clumsy, loud, and meant to make me slip.

One of the older shareholders leans forward, his gray mustache twitching like it's got opinions of its own.

"Miss Roy, with respect, you don't have the years of experience to run this company. What makes you think you're qualified?"

Ah, yes. The classic 'with respect'—boardroom code for I'm about to insult you to your face. I smile politely, resisting the urge to see how aerodynamic my stapler is when launched at his forehead.

Instead, I lace my fingers together, tilt my chin just enough to remind him that I'm not his granddaughter, and answer, calm but sharp.

"Experience doesn't come from counting candles on a birthday cake. It comes from results. This company's profits have increased in the last two quarters under my oversight. The strategies I've implemented are working—and they'll continue to work."

His lips press thin. Good. Chew on that.

Another one jumps in, this one with a voice like gravel and a tie so loud it should come with a warning label.