I closed the box.
“Have a nice morning,” I said calmly.
Martin blinked.
He expected begging. Anger. Tears.
Instead, he got politeness.
That seemed to irritate him even more.
Security escorted me to the elevator looking embarrassed the entire way down. As I crossed the lobby, I passed the founder’s portrait: Arthur Tennant standing outside the original factory with rolled sleeves and sawdust on his boots.
My grandfather.
The man who taught me never to sign anything angry and never reveal power until it served a purpose.
Martin had never bothered asking my maiden name.
At 10:03, my phone rang.
It was Nina whispering frantically.
“Clara, he’s in the boardroom. Legal just opened your file. He’s shouting, ‘Clara Tennant — who is she?!’”
I smiled down at the cardboard box resting on my lap.
“Tell him,” I said softly, “I’m the woman he needed permission to fire.”
