Page 59 of Filthy Rich Daddies
At 9:00 a.m., I’m in the boardroom.
It has a panoramic view of the city and smells faintly of upholstery glue and citrus polish, no matter how many times they “update” the decor. Marcus is already seated, a thick stack of folders in front of him, posture perfect, tie straight.
Everyone else files in slowly—legal, marketing, R&D, regional ops. Tic is absent, by design. After all, he’s just a consultant these days. We agreed he’d hold off on showing his hand until we’re sure what Marcus is trying to pull.
I sit at the head of the table, give the expected nod, and flip open my notepad.
The room hums with tension. I can feel it behind the polite murmurs and half smiles. Our Q4 sales dipped harder than projected. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to make the shareholders antsy. Supply chain costs were worse than expected, and Marcus has been seeding his little suggestions—passive, always, with that charming, grandfatherly tone of his—for weeks now.
He wants me out. I know it. He knows I know it. What’s worse is he’s built his case with such studied subtlety that if I try to call him out too early, I’ll look paranoid.
I don’t want to think the worst of him, but he’s made it so easy.
The meeting drags through numbers I already know, lines I’ve read a dozen times. Then Marcus clears his throat. “I hesitate to bring this up,” he says, hands folded on the table like he’s offering prayer, “but we’ve received…feedback.”
Here it comes.
“Several shareholders have expressed concern. They feel the recent volatility points to uncertainty in leadership. Not necessarily failure,” he says quickly, raising one hand. “Just…misalignment.”
I keep my face neutral. I don’t interrupt.
Marcus sighs, a picture of reluctant wisdom. “Dean, you’ve done admirable work stepping in when Atticus retired. Truly. No one disputes your competence. But perhaps it’s time we consider a change. A return to steadier waters.”
The room stills. Nobody makes eye contact. Not legal, not ops, not even the guy from HR with the nervous twitch.
“You’ve never wanted this position,” Marcus says kindly. “Perhaps it’s time to step aside and let someone more experienced handle it. Temporarily, of course. Just until confidence stabilizes.”
I could laugh. Instead, I nod once. “You’d be willing to take that on, Marcus? For the good of the company?”
He smiles like a man burdened by duty. “If asked, yes. For the company, always.”
Of course.
I glance at the room. No one meets my eyes. They’ve all read the numbers. They’ve all felt the drop in stock price. If I resist, there’ll be a no-confidence vote, and it’ll look like I’m clinging to power.
But if I step down myself, I can control the narrative. I can make it temporary. And if Tic’s audit unearths what we think it will, I can come back before Marcus settles too deeply into the chair.
Still, it’s a blow.
I breathe once, deeply, set my pen on the table, and look up.
“I’ll resign,” I say. “Effective immediately. But I’m not going far.”
Marcus blinks. Not part of his script.
I smile politely. “I’ll retain a seat on the advisory committee. And I’ll support your interim leadership, Marcus, assuming the board accepts it. But I’ll also be taking a personal leave.”
Someone coughs. Legal’s pen scratches the margin of a notepad. Marcus’s mouth tightens. Evidently, no one knows quite what to say. Were they expecting a fight?
I stand, button my jacket. “Thank you, everyone. I’ll work with HR to finalize the paperwork.”
And then I walk out.
The elevator ride down is long. My hands shake, just a little. The weight of the job is still sliding off me, like armor I didn’t realize I’d been wearing until it started hitting the floor, piece by piece.
Part of me aches. This company is my life. My family’s legacy. There’s always been a Copeland in the CEO’s chair. I grew up in these hallways. I took naps on my father’s office couchduring summer board meetings. I carved my initials under the reception desk in the finance wing when I was ten.
And now, I’m out. I don’t like it.
