Too Late, Mr. CEO: Watch Me Shine

Brennon stared at the due diligence checklist Marcus Thorne had left behind.

The requirements were extensive. Historical performance data. Stress test results. Model validation against black swan events.

He needed the Eda Capital portfolio analysis.

His fingers found the speed dial for Kayla's extension without looking. Four rings. Then the automated voicemail, her recorded voice professional and distant.

He frowned.

His mouse clicked to the internal directory. Kayla's avatar had changed-gray instead of green, with three letters beneath her name.

PTO.

Paid time off.

Brennon laughed, a short incredulous sound.

She had taken vacation? Now? With Thorne's follow-up meeting in seventy-two hours and the data warehouse in chaos since the last system migration?

He grabbed his personal iPhone, scrolling to her contact.

The call connected on the third ring.

Kayla sat in a coffee shop three blocks from Mount Sinai, an Innovest product specification document open on her tablet. The oat milk latte in front of her had cooled to room temperature.

Her phone vibrated.

Brennon's name filled the screen, his photo from last year's company retreat-him in sunglasses, her arm around his waist, both of them smiling for the photographer.

She watched it ring.

Once. Twice. Three times. Four.

Her thumb moved.

She swiped to answer, placed the phone face-up on the table, and activated speaker mode.

She didn't speak.

"Kayla." Brennon's voice filled the small space, loud enough that the barista glanced over. "I need you to open your laptop. The Eda Capital data needs consolidation by morning. I'm sending you the file structure now."

He paused. Waited.

Kayla lifted her latte and sipped. The oat milk had separated, leaving a grainy residue on her tongue.

"I'm on personal leave," she said.

Her voice was flat. Neutral. The tone she used for declining meeting invitations from vendors she didn't respect.

Brennon's silence stretched two seconds longer than comfortable.

"You're what?"

"Personal leave," she repeated. "I won't be working this week. Or next."

"Kayla." His voice shifted, adopting the patronizing warmth he used for difficult employees. "I know I've been busy. I know you feel neglected. But this isn't the time for-"

"I don't feel neglected."

She set the cup down. The ceramic clicked against wood.

"I feel relieved."

Brennon's breath caught, audible through the speaker.

"Let's not play games," he said, recovering. "You're upset about Evelin. I understand. But she's a strategic hire, nothing more. Come back to the office, finish this report, and this weekend we'll go to Hermès. That bag you wanted-the limited edition. I'll have them hold it."

Kayla's stomach contracted.

Not metaphorically. A physical spasm of revulsion that sent acid burning up her esophagus.

She had mentioned that bag once. Six months ago. A casual observation while they walked past the Madison Avenue window.

He had filed it away. A token for good behavior.

"I don't want the bag," she said.

"Kayla-"

"I don't want the report. I don't want your weekends." She leaned toward the phone, her voice dropping to something cold and final. "If Evelin is so capable, let her handle the 'dirty work.'"

Brennon's temper ignited.

"Don't bring your jealousy into professional contexts," he snapped. "Evelin does top-level strategy. She doesn't waste time on data scrubbing. That's support work. That's what you're-"

"Goodbye, Brennon."

She ended the call.

Her thumb hovered over his contact entry. Block this caller. Confirm.

The screen refreshed. Brennon Bauer: Blocked.

In his office, Brennon stared at the phone.

The display showed Call Ended, the duration frozen at 4 minutes 23 seconds.

He threw the iPhone onto the leather sofa. It bounced once, landing screen-down in the cushion's crease.

"She'll apologize," he said to the empty room. "By tomorrow. She always does."

He reached for his Scotch, already composing the email he would send when she came crawling back.