Chapter 64: The Heated Boardroom

Lisa’s POV

The boardroom is too bright today. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the long glass table reflects every flicker of movement, and the projector hums with the impatience of twenty eyes waiting to dissect our next move against Andre’s network.

My chest is still tender from yesterday’s breakdown—still carrying the imprint of Leo’s touch on my cheek, the softness that seeped into me like warmth against frost. I’m not ready to face that softness again. Not in public. Not in a room full of strategists and partners.

But Leo is already here, leaning back in his chair like he owns the oxygen in the room. He’s flipping through the printed agenda, jaw taut, eyes sharp. When he glances up at me, it’s quick and unreadable—nothing like the gentleness from before.

Maybe he regrets it. Maybe I do too.

I don’t know.

“Let’s begin,” I say, forcing my voice steady as I sit across from him.

The discussion starts smoothly enough—media plans, event schedules, investor outreach—but when we reach the proposal about confronting Andre’s extended network publicly, everything shifts.

“We go public with the connections,” I say firmly. “Expose the financial ties. Cut the roots before he grows new ones.”

Leo’s eyes lift slowly. “That’s reckless.”

The word hits the table like a dropped blade.

I fold my arms. “It’s strategic.”

“No, it’s impulsive,” he fires back. “You want a headline, not a solution.”

A few people glance awkwardly between us. I ignore them.

“This is bigger than one headline,” I say. “The network is enabling him. If we don’t call them out, they’ll keep shielding him.”

“And if you throw accusations without airtight backing, they’ll bury us legally before we can blink,” Leo counters.

His voice is cool, controlled—but I can feel the heat under it. The same kind of heat that sat between us yesterday, but now sharpened.

My pulse spikes. “We have evidence.”

“Not enough for what you want to attempt.” His jaw flexes. “You’re pushing too fast.”

“And you’re slowing us down.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes locking with mine. “I’m trying to protect the work we’ve built. I’m trying to keep this from blowing up in your face.”

“In my face?” I repeat, incredulous. “This isn’t about me.”

His stare deepens. “It is. Because you’re making decisions from emotion, not strategy.”

The room goes still.

My breath catches—part hurt, part fury.

He knows exactly where to hit. And he did.

I straighten my papers with sharp precision. “Meeting adjourned. We’ll revisit the strategy after reviewing the documents again.”

No one argues. Chairs scrape the floor as people rise and hurry out, more relieved than they should be. Tension follows them out the door like smoke.

I stay seated, gathering my notes slowly, breathing as steadily as I can.

Leo remains seated too.

The silence between us is thick. Not cold—charged.

Finally, I stack the papers together and stand. “If you have an issue with my leadership, bring it to me privately. Don’t undermine me in front of the team.”

He rises too, almost immediately. “I wasn’t undermining you.”

“No?” I lift my chin. “Because it sure sounded like it.”

He steps closer—not threatening, but deliberate. “I was being honest.”

“Well, your honesty was—”

He cuts in softly, “Lisa.”

Just my name.

And somehow, that single word unravels the rest of my sentence.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair before speaking again. “You don’t trust me yet. That’s the real problem.”

The air leaves my lungs in one stunned rush.

Because he’s right.

And hearing him say it shakes me harder than I want to admit.

I cross my arms, gripping the papers too tight. “This isn’t about trust. It’s about strategy.”

“It’s about both,” he says. “You keep me at arm’s length even when we’re supposed to be on the same side.”

My throat tightens. “Leo… you’re asking for something I don’t know how to give. Not yet.”

He steps closer again—close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, the clean scent of winter air still clinging to his coat.

“You don’t have to know how,” he says quietly. “Just don’t shut me out.”

The gentleness in his tone disarms me far more than his earlier fire. It reminds me of yesterday—his hand wiping my tears, the way he sat with me without asking for explanation, without judgment.

I swallow. “I’m… trying.”

He studies my face for a long moment, and I can’t tell if he’s searching for truth or permission. Maybe both.

Then he leans back slightly and gestures toward the far end of the room. “We’re alone now. Can we talk? Really talk?”

I hesitate, walls half-raised, half-crumbling.

But I nod.

We move to the corner of the boardroom, away from the table, away from the lingering tension. He closes the blinds halfway, dimming the harsh overhead light, making the room feel smaller, softer.

He sits on the edge of the low cabinet; I stand opposite, leaning back against the wall.

He starts.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you in there,” he says. “But I won’t lie to you either. I’m not going to agree just to keep the peace.”

“I don’t want blind agreement,” I reply. “I want partnership.”

“And trust,” he adds softly.

I look away, chewing the inside of my cheek. “Trust is complicated for me.”

“I know,” he says. “But I’m here. I’m not leaving. Not from this project, not from you.”

The last two words hit deeper than I expected.

I exhale slowly. “Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in this fight… and I don’t know who to hold on to.”

He stands, crossing the distance with slow, careful steps. He stops just a foot away—close enough to feel, far enough to give me room to breathe.

“You can hold on to me,” he says quietly. “If you want to.”

My heart stutters.

He isn’t pushing.

He isn’t demanding.

He’s offering.

Piece by piece, exactly like the trust he’s asking for.

I force myself to meet his eyes. “What if I mess this up?”

“Then we fix it,” he says simply.

I let out a shaky breath. “You really believe we can do this together?”

“I do.” His voice warms. “Even when we fight like hell.”

A small, involuntary smile tugs at my lips. “We did fight.”

“We did,” he echoes with a faint grin.

His hand lifts—and for a moment, I think he’s going to touch me again. But instead, he reaches past me, gently straightening a crooked framed certificate on the wall. His fingers brush mine by accident.

Or maybe not an accident.

Heat flares in my chest.

He steps back slightly, giving the moment space. “We’ll go over the strategy again tonight. Just us. No audience. No tension.”

“Just trust?” I ask softly.

“Just two people trying to build it,” he replies.

And for the first time in a long while, I feel something new settling inside me.

Not revenge.Not anger.Not grief.

Hope.