Chapter 16: Ghost of an Empire

As I approached the conference room door, I noticed it was slightly open.

Voices drifted through the gap.

“…reckless—”

“…company image—”

“…this cannot continue…”

I exhaled slowly and pushed the door open.

The conversation died instantly.

All eyes turned to me.

The conference room was exactly as I remembered — polished and intimidating. A massive oval mahogany table dominated the center, its glossy surface reflecting the overhead chandelier. Leather chairs circled it neatly. In front of every seat sat a glass bottle of water and a crystal tumbler placed on square coasters. Folders, tablets, and neatly stacked documents rested before each man.

Every chair was occupied.

Except one.

At the head of the table — the most prominent position — sat an empty chair.

Mine.

I walked toward it slowly, heels clicking against the marble floor. Instead of sitting, I stepped behind it and rested my arms along the top of the chair, gripping it lightly.

“Aren’t you going to sit?” an elderly man asked.

He looked to be in his late sixties, silver hair neatly combed back, thin-framed glasses resting on a sharp nose. His voice carried authority, the kind built over decades of command.

I shook my head. “I’m okay like this.”

Murmurs rippled around the table.

He raised a hand. “Silence.”

The room obeyed instantly.

So he was still the loudest voice in the room.

Interesting.

It almost amused me. I founded this company after my banishment. These men were my investors, my carefully chosen allies. And yet, standing here now, I could barely remember half of their names.

“Miss Lincoln,” the elderly man continued, folding his hands before him, “do you know why we called this meeting?”

I gave a small shrug. “No idea. I’m sorry.”

“Unbelievable,” someone muttered.

A louder wave of murmuring spread.

“I said silence!” the elderly man barked again — so forcefully that it triggered a rough cough in his chest. He pressed a handkerchief to his lips, coughing into it.

I straightened slightly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

The room grew tense.

He adjusted himself and leaned forward.

“Miss Lincoln, your behavior over the past year has been… unacceptable.”

I remained quiet.

“You rarely attend executive meetings. You skip public events. You authorize outrageous spending without consultation. Luxury renovations. Private travel expenses. Donations without board approval.”

Several men nodded in agreement.

“You treat this company like a personal playground,” another man added.

“You live lavishly while expecting us to defend your absence to stakeholders,” someone else chimed in.

The elderly man continued, his tone sharpening.

“And yet, none of us can even fully blame you. This is precisely how your mother behaved when she was CEO.”

More nods.

“She was brilliant,” one man said carefully, “but impulsive. Detached. Operated above everyone.”

The elderly man’s gaze locked onto mine.

“Just like you.”

I let the silence stretch.

Inside, I almost laughed.

They had swallowed the story whole — that my mother, Funke, had fallen ill and sent me, her daughter, to temporarily take over.

They had no idea.

Funke never existed.

I created this empire decades ago after my banishment. I built it using three powerful connections — men who ran Nigeria from behind curtains, men who would bend laws and crush rivals for a whisper of my favor.

When I grew bored of managing it, I left Tunde in charge. Loyal Tunde. Efficient. Ruthless when needed.

But when he caught wind of information regarding my half-brother’s whereabouts, he had to step away.

And this company — my creation — fell into the hands of the elderly man now lecturing me.

I studied him carefully.

He had aged.

He once proposed marriage to me, just before I disappeared. He thought aligning himself with me would elevate his legacy.

Now he looked at me like I was a disappointment.

“How is your mother doing these days?” he asked suddenly.

There it was.

The test.

I tilted my head slightly. “Still recovering.”

A few sympathetic nods circled the room.

He sighed. “We all respected her. She built this company with vision. Discipline.”

I almost smirked.

I built it.

Every brick.

Every contract.

Every secret handshake.

But instead of correcting him, I remained nonchalant. Calm. Detached.

“And what exactly are you proposing?” I asked casually.

The elderly man straightened.

“We are proposing restructuring executive control.”

The room stiffened.

“You will retain your title,” he continued carefully, “but financial decisions and operational authority will require board approval.”

Ah.

So that was it.

A soft coup.

They wanted to cage me.

I slowly removed my arms from the chair and walked around it, finally lowering myself into the head seat.

The leather creaked slightly beneath me.

For a moment, no one spoke.

I leaned back comfortably.

“Gentlemen,” I said smoothly, “do you really think this company exists because of your approval?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“I have allowed you autonomy,” I continued. “I have allowed you to feel essential.”

A few uneasy glances passed between them.

“But let’s not mistake tolerance for dependence.”

The elderly man’s jaw tightened. “Is that a threat, Miss Lincoln?”

I smiled faintly.

“No. It’s a reminder.”

Silence filled the conference room.

And for the first time since I walked in—

They looked uncertain.For a brief moment, their voices faded into the background.

Instead, I thought about Daniel.

About the way his eyes lit up when he talked about traveling the world. About how simple the dream sounded when he said it — just movement, freedom, discovery.

I’ve seen the world.

Paris in the 1800s. London before electricity. Lagos before the skyline. Snow-covered mountains, ancient deserts, cities that no longer exist.

But I’ve never seen it with someone.

Not like that.

The thought made something warm flicker inside me.

And before I realized it—

I was smiling.

“Are you… smiling right now?” the elderly man asked, confused.

I blinked, pulled back to the present. The entire table was staring at me.

I straightened in my seat.

“You know what,” I said calmly, “you can do whatever you want. I give you control.”

Silence.

Pure shock.

A few men exchanged stunned glances.

“So,” the elderly man said slowly, “you plan on leaving again?”

“Yes, I do.” I rose from the chair smoothly. “If that’s all, I would like to take my leave.”

No resistance.

No dramatic defense.

That unsettled them more than any threat would have.

I walked toward the door, heels echoing against the polished floor.

Just as I stepped out—

“Wait.”

I paused.

Slowly turned.

The elderly man was walking toward me, adjusting his suit jacket. The others remained inside, pretending not to watch.

When he reached me, his voice softened.

“Miss Lincoln… may I have a word?”

I tilted my head slightly but said nothing.

Up close, I could see the ambition behind his tired eyes.

“You remind me so much of your mother,” he began. “Strong. Independent. Visionary.”

Here we go.

“When she led this company,” he continued, lowering his voice further, “I admired her deeply. More than professionally.”

His gaze lingered too long.

“I once proposed an arrangement,” he said carefully. “A partnership. One that could have benefited us both.”

I almost laughed.

He had proposed marriage to me decades ago — when he believed I was untouchable and eternal. He thought proximity to me would grant him power.

“And I find myself,” he continued, stepping slightly closer, “feeling that same admiration now.”

There it was.

The same play.

Different century.

Different identity.

Same man.

“You’re intelligent,” he added. “Beautiful. Powerful. You don’t have to leave. Together, we could stabilize this empire. I could… support you.”

Support me.

I looked at him quietly for a long moment.

Then I gave him the exact same smile I gave him decades ago.

Polite.

Untouched.

“I don’t mix business with pleasure,” I said smoothly.

His expression flickered — confusion passing through his eyes.

“You said that before,” he muttered instinctively.

I held his gaze.

“Did I?”

He blinked, clearly unsettled now.

“I just mean,” he tried to recover, “you shouldn’t throw everything away. You deserve someone who understands your world.”

“I already have someone,” I replied softly.

That stopped him.

“And besides,” I continued, stepping back toward the hallway, “you were never my type.”

The exact words.

The exact tone.

Just like before.

His face drained slightly of color — not from rejection, but from something deeper.

Recognition.

But he couldn’t place it.

Couldn’t understand why it felt familiar.

“Goodbye,” I said calmly.

Then I turned and walked away, leaving him standing there — confused, unsettled, and still chasing a ghost he didn’t realize had never changed.