The Most Expensive Slap of Her Career

By six o'clock that evening, the low autumn sun was casting long, amber shadows across the skyline of downtown Chicago, cutting through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the penthouse boardroom on thirty-four.

The massive walnut table was surrounded by twelve elderly board members, their usual bluster and arrogance replaced by an anxious, attentive silence. At the head of the table sat Evelyn Vance, fingers laced over a clean slate of polished leather.

The double doors opened.

Elena walked in. She hadn't changed into a designer gown or a tailored power suit. She was still wearing her slightly rumpled cream trousers, her flat leather loafers, and a simple ice pack wrapped in a linen napkin held loosely against her left cheek.

She took the empty chair at the foot of the table, directly opposite her mother.

"Miss Vance-Montgomery," Arthur Pendelton cleared his throat, adjusting his reading glasses. "The board has reviewed the documentation regarding the operations restructure, the vendor fraud eliminations, and the Chicago rail diversion. The projected annual savings exceed ninety-two million dollars."

Elena didn't look at the spreadsheet Arthur slid toward her. She kept her eyes fixed on Evelyn.

"I don't care about the ninety-two million," Elena said.

A few board members shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances.

"What do you care about, then?" Evelyn asked, leaning forward, an enigmatic smile playing on her lips.

"I care about how this building runs from eight in the morning to five at night," Elena said, her voice clear, distinct, and without an ounce of hesitation. "I want full oversight of workplace compliance and operations management. I want every middle manager audited for retaliation, harassment, and wage theft by the end of this quarter. If anyone raises a hand, raises their voice, or treats an entry-level worker like personal property, they don't get a warning. They don't get a golden parachute. They get their badge cut in half and their names sent to the state labor board."

A heavy-set board member scoffed softly under his breath. "Young lady, that kind of policy disrupts corporate hierarchy. You can't run a Fortune 100 firm like a democracy."

Elena turned her gaze on him. It was the exact look Evelyn had worn for thirty years—the look that signaled an opponent had made their final mistake.

"Then sell your shares, Harold," Elena said with razor-sharp finality. "Because tomorrow morning at eight sharp, I’m clocking in on the thirty-third floor. And I’m bringing my own broom."