Mr CEO - Daniel Ricciardo

Twenty One

Daniel's POV

The conference room buzzed with low chatter as the company accountant flipped through the latest financial reports, his voice droning on about quarterly projections and expense breakdowns. I sat at the long mahogany table, nodding at the appropriate moments, but my attention was elsewhere. My mind kept drifting back to Claudelle.

Five days. It had been five days since I last saw her, and each one without her had felt interminably long. After that afternoon in the hallway, after the way I'd spoken to her, she'd left the office visibly shaken. The guilt simmered beneath my composed exterior as I thought about how she hadn't returned since. Now, she was signed off work sick for the week. Each day without her presence gnawed at me, the silence more piercing than any reprimand I'd ever received.

I shifted in my seat, forcing myself to focus as the accountant adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and pointed to a series of expense trends on the projector screen. The partners around me jotted notes, heads bent with attention. I clenched my jaw, willing myself to stay present. But it was no use. The memory of Claudelle's wide-eyed shock when I shouted at her kept resurfacing, a stark reminder of my failure to manage my emotions.

The frustration in that moment hadn't come from nowhere. She had burst into a meeting unannounced, disrupting the flow of a crucial conversation with Mr. Mercer and Mr. Heap—a move that was undeniably unprofessional. I stood by that. She needed to learn that there were boundaries, especially in an environment where precision and composure mattered.

But I could have handled it better. I shouldn't have raised my voice. The way her face had fallen when I told her to never call me Daniel in front of the partners—the flash of hurt in her eyes—had stayed with me, replaying on a loop in my mind. The memory was a weight I couldn't shake.

"Mr. Ricciardo? Are you with us?" Mr. Mercer's voice sliced through my reverie, snapping me back to the room. All eyes turned to me, some curious, others holding a trace of irritation.

"Yes," I said, sitting up straighter and clearing my throat. "Apologies. Please, continue."

The accountant resumed his presentation, and the partners returned to their notes. I gripped my pen tighter, tapping it lightly against my notepad, trying to tether my thoughts to the present. But it was impossible. Each number, each projected expense and profit margin blurred into meaninglessness as my mind drifted back to Claudelle.

I'd texted her multiple times over the past few days, short, careful messages to check in. The last reply I got was short, almost clinical: "I'm okay. Just need some time."

She wasn't okay, and I knew it. And the fact that I'd contributed to her feeling this way made me feel like an ass. Claudelle wasn't just any colleague. She was the person whose laughter made the office feel less sterile, who'd somehow become the best part of my day without me even realizing it. And now, she was hurting because of me.

The accountant's voice grew more animated, pointing to a positive trend on the chart, but I barely registered it. I was thinking of the way Claudelle's eyes sparkled when she was passionately explaining something, the way she'd scrunch her nose when Ollie teased her. How those small moments had been absent these past days, leaving the office duller, colder.

The door creaked open, and an assistant stepped in with a folder, providing a brief distraction. I rubbed my temples, trying to ease the ache of frustration and regret building there. I stood by my belief that Claudelle needed to understand the importance of boundaries in a professional setting. But the way I'd handled it, the shouting, the cold dismissal—that was on me.

I needed to fix this. The meeting droned on, a symphony of voices discussing bottom lines and projections, but all I could think about was her. How she was at home, probably questioning her worth, probably replaying that moment just like I was.