Chapter 159 Claiming The Controlling Board Seat
The walk from the auditorium to the executive suite felt like walking through a graveyard. The hallways of the headquarters were silent. The employees had retreated to their desks or fled the building entirely. The usual hum of corporate life was gone, replaced by the sterile hum of the air conditioning.
Tristan walked beside me. His breathing was shallow, a quiet rasp that marked the toll of his gunshot wound. He did not lean on me. He kept his distance, offering me the physical space to lead.
We reached the top floor. The heavy glass doors slid open. Ricardo Salazar was waiting at the long table, surrounded by the remaining institutional shareholders—the men and women who managed mutual funds and international portfolios. They were the silent money. They did not care about scandals. They only cared about stability.
I walked to the head of the table. I did not sit. I placed my hands flat against the polished dark wood.
"The criminals are in custody," I stated. My voice was calm. It did not tremble. "The fraud is exposed. The Whitmore alliance is dead. Now, we vote."
Ricardo opened a thick leather binder. He looked around the table. "We are here to ratify the activation of the Serrano Trust. By the rules established in Alexander Johnston’s original charter, the legal beneficiary holds a fifty-one percent controlling stake in the foundation of this conglomerate. Minerva Hayes, born Natalia Minerva Serrano, has submitted the verified DNA markers and the original trust documents."
A man in a gray suit cleared his throat. "Miss Hayes. The market is in freefall. The media is painting this building as a crime scene. If we ratify this, we are handing a multinational corporation to a woman with three years of executive experience at a mid-tier cosmetics firm."
"Aegis is not a mid-tier firm," I corrected him. I met his gaze, refusing to blink. "It is the most profitable independent biotech and cosmetics manufacturer on the eastern seaboard. I built it while dodging the saboteurs you let sit in your boardroom. I built it without a safety net. You handed Benedict Holloway the keys to this empire, and he drove it off a cliff. You do not have the luxury of doubting my resume."
The man closed his mouth and looked down at his notes.
"Let us be clear," I continued. I looked at each of the investors. "I am not asking for your permission. The shares belong to me. I am giving you the opportunity to align with the new reality. If you vote against ratification, I will take the company private, and you will spend the next ten years fighting my legal team for pennies on the dollar. If you vote yes, the bleeding stops today."
Ricardo Salazar tapped his pen against the table. "All those in favor of ratifying the Serrano Trust and confirming Minerva Serrano as the controlling Chairman of the board?"
One by one, the hands went up.
There was no applause. There were no smiles. It was a cold, calculated surrender. They were voting for survival.
"The motion passes," Ricardo announced. He slid a single sheet of heavy paper across the table toward me. "Sign here, Minerva. It is done."
I picked up the pen. The metal felt cold against my skin. I looked at the line waiting for my name. For three years, I had dreamed of this moment. I had fueled my days with the fantasy of taking everything from the people who had mocked my mother and discarded me. I had imagined the rush of power. I had imagined the joy of vengeance.
I signed my name.
I set the pen down.
There was no rush of joy. There was only a heavy, crushing ache in my chest. I had the crown, but the throne was built on a mountain of lies, trauma, and lost time. I was the Chairman. The hidden heir was finally recognized. But my mother was still dead, and my son still spent his first three years in the shadow of an industrial slum.
"The meeting is adjourned," I said.
The shareholders packed their bags and filed out of the room. They offered stiff nods as they passed me. The respect was an illusion. They respected the teeth I had just bared, not the woman standing behind them. I did not care. Fear was a better currency than fake affection.
When the room was empty, Tristan let out a long breath. He sat down in one of the leather chairs, his face gray with exhaustion. He pressed his good hand against his ribs.
"You need a doctor," I told him.
"I need a moment," Tristan replied. He closed his eyes. "You did it. The Johnston Group is yours. The Serrano name is at the top of the letterhead."
I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city was spread out below, a grid of wet streets and flickering neon. The rain was starting to fall again, streaking the glass.
"It feels empty," I admitted. The confession slipped out before I could stop it. "I spent all this time sharpening myself into a weapon. I thought taking the company would fix the broken pieces. It just feels like I am standing in a very expensive graveyard."
"Revenge never fills the hole," Tristan said. His voice was quiet. It carried the weight of a man who had learned that lesson the hard way. "It just builds a wall around it so no one else can see how empty you are inside."
I turned to look at him. He looked so fragile. The billionaire who used to command the room with a single glance was gone. He had stripped himself of his armor, and he had done it willingly.
"How does it feel?" I asked him. "To lose the empire your family built?"
Tristan opened his eyes. He looked at me, and there was no anger in his gaze. Only a deep, agonizing reverence.