A Shot at Love

Power Moves

I let out a slow exhale as I sink into the conference chair, my oversized black pantsuit and lucky Jordans the only armor I've got. Outside, gray skies press against the floor-to-ceiling windows—cloudy days are rare in SoCal, but today the sun's nowhere to be found. Noah just introduced me to the board, and now the room is silent—and freezing. We're just waiting on one more person, who's officially five minutes late.

There's a shift in the air. Then, right on cue, Meredith sweeps in —every inch of her screaming she's here for a showdown, not a meeting.

"Gentlemen! Good afternoon," Meredith calls out, sauntering around the table, eyes sharp, scanning for any sign of weakness. "Thank you for your patience." She flashes a wink at the men before sliding into her seat.

Noah and I trade a knowing look as he settles into the chair beside me, unbuttoning his sports coat with a quiet sigh.

At the head of the table, Bradford Jameson—the Board Chair—sits stoic, tapping his pen once to get everyone's attention.

"Thank you, everyone, for joining us on short notice. Before we begin, I'd like to remind all present that today's meeting will be conducted according to board protocol. If you have something to contribute, please indicate and wait to be recognized."

He glances around the room, his eyes pausing on Noah, then Meredith.

"Today's agenda concerns recent violations of company policy and financial discrepancies that have come to light at Sports Digest. As the one who raised these concerns, Meredith, you'll have the floor first. Please present your findings."

Meredith's heels click sharply against the marble floor as she paces before the board, her fitted white pencil dress accentuating her every movement. The deep red of her lips is almost as cutting as her tone.

"Good afternoon," she begins, turning to face the long table of directors, "I wish the circumstances were different, but what I'm about to reveal concerns the integrity of this company—and the trust we place in its leadership."

She surveys the room, savoring the suspense. Noah sits stone-faced, and I find myself holding my breath, my fingers nervously twisting the gold ring on my hand, doing my best to hide the fresh ink beneath it.

Meredith lifts a glossy folder and slides a single sheet across the table. "Per our company policy, romantic relationships between superiors and employees are strictly prohibited. Yet, I regret to inform you that Mr. Westbrook and Ms. Hart have not only broken this policy but have paraded their relationship all over town."

She gives a quick nod to the AV tech in the corner. The projector flickers to life, and up comes the first image: Noah and me in front of the "So This is Love" mural in San Francisco—caught mid-kiss. Next slide: the two of us outside my mom's house after her birthday gala, kissing again. Then comes a grainy photo from our first date at The Polo Lounge, Noah's blazer draped over my shoulders. And the final slides? Fresh photos from this past weekend—Noah in his NASCAR costume, holding my hand, shielding me from the paparazzi.

Great.

A ripple of murmurs spreads around the table and I feel the blood drain from my face.

Meredith continues, clearly proud of herself. "And yes, that last batch was taken just this past Halloween weekend. Now, some might call this nothing more than a lapse in judgment," she says, pausing for effect. "But I wish it were only that."

She produces another folder, this one thicker, marked CONFIDENTIAL. She flips it open, laying out a series of printed bank statements for the board to see.

"I have reason to believe," she says, barely hiding her glee, "that this relationship goes beyond personal. We have uncovered suspicious wire transfers—millions of dollars moved from an account in Mr. Westbrook's name directly to Ms. Hart."