Chapter 169: Chapter 169

Liana’s POV

The boardroom feels like a courtroom. Even the glass walls can’t hide the weight pressing down on the twenty-seventh floor of Z-Core Tower.

The city sprawls below, a glittering network of lights and consequence, and I’m sitting at the center of it where judgment is about to fall.

The long mahogany table gleams under the recessed lights, surrounded by faces that used to smile at me during champagne launches and quarterly wins. Now they stare as if I’m a contagion that might spread.

Alan Greaves, acting chairman since Stanley’s arrest, clears his throat and leans forward. “This emergency session of the board is now in order,” he says in his slow, self-important drawl. “Our single agenda item: a vote of confidence or lack thereof in Miss Liana Holt’s position as Chief Executive Officer.”

The emphasis on Miss lands like a bruise. The annulment made headlines. Everything did.

He continues, “Given recent events, the federal inquiry, shareholder panic, and public scandal the board must determine whether Miss Smith’s leadership can continue to serve this company’s interests.”

I keep my expression still. There’s no use showing nerves. Z-Core has always been a machine that feeds on fear, and I refuse to bleed for them.

“Before you vote,” I say, rising to stand, “I’d like to make one thing clear.”

Greaves sighs. “Briefly, please.”

I meet every pair of eyes around the table. “I didn’t expose Stanley Smith to destroy this company. I did it to save it. Every document I turned over, every piece of evidence I released, was meant to stop corruption not feed headlines. Z-Core’s name will recover but only if we show that integrity still means something here.”

A few directors shift in their seats. One, a woman from compliance, looks down at her tablet but doesn’t argue.

Greaves nods curtly. “Thank you, Miss Holt. Your statement will be entered into record. We’ll now proceed to the vote.”

The company secretary, a small woman with sharp eyes, stands and reads the protocol. “Each director and recognized shareholder representative will cast a vote: retain or remove. Majority determines outcome.”

The room goes silent except for the tapping of fingers on digital screens. The votes begin appearing on the display embedded in the wall.

The rest blur together. Names. Votes. The sinking in my chest as the numbers tilt against me.

Finally, the secretary speaks. “We have eleven of twelve votes submitted. One shareholder representative remains.”

Greaves glances at her. “Which shareholder?”

She scrolls through her tablet. “Alias: A. R. Gray, controlling seven percent of total Z-Core equity.”

The silent investor who appeared two years ago after the Smith collapse, quietly acquiring dormant shares through a shell trust. No one’s ever met him. His identity has been a rumor wrapped in money.

Greaves adjusts his glasses. “We appreciate Mr. Gray’s remote participation. Mr. Gray, if you’re connected, please cast your vote.”

The speakerphone crackles once. Then a voice fills the room.

“I vote to retain Liana Smith as CEO.”

My chest tightens. It can’t be… but I know that voice. I know the precision in it. The quiet fire beneath the calm.

Greaves frowns. “Mr. Gray, before we record your vote, the board requests confirmation of your legal identity for audit purposes.”

Silence hums for a heartbeat. Then the voice returns, steady and unmistakable. “This is Dominic Smith.”

The room explodes in disbelief. Chairs scrape back. Voices overlap, half shock, half outrage.

“Impossible!”

“He was declared insolvent!”

“He’s under federal protection…”

Greaves slams his palm on the table. “Order! Order!”

I can barely breathe. The air around me tilts. My fingers grip the edge of the table to anchor myself.

Dominic’s voice cuts through the noise. “I’ve held these shares under a protective trust since the trial. My name needed to disappear for the investigations to continue but I never stopped believing this company could rise again without corruption. Liana Smith has proven that’s possible.” The chaos stills.

He continues, calm and deliberate. “She did what none of you could, stood against Stanley Smith when it meant losing everything. She didn’t hide behind lawyers or investors. She faced the fire. You’d be fools to remove the only person with a moral spine left in this room.”

Greaves clears his throat. “Mr. Smith, your identity and holdings must be verified….”

“They already are,” Dominic interrupts. “Check your registry. You’ll find the transfer filings timestamped two hours ago.”

The secretary taps her tablet, eyes widening. “He’s correct. The ownership documents match the shareholder code. It’s legitimate.”

Greaves stares at the screen as if it’s turned against him. “Very well. Mr. Smith’s vote will be recorded.”

Everyone looks to Greaves. As acting chair, the tiebreaker falls to him. He opens his mouth, then Dominic’s voice cuts in again.

“Before you decide, there’s something else.”

The faint rustle of paper filters through the speaker.

“I’m transferring all my share, every percentage point into a protected trust for Camilla .”

The name slices through the room.

Camilla. Our daughter.

Greaves blinks. “You’re…what?”

“You heard me,” Dominic says. “Camilla is the rightful heir to the Smith legacy. Until she comes of age, Liana Smith will serve as trustee and protector of her interests. I’ve already executed the transfer. It’s irrevocable.”

The secretary confirms again, voice trembling. “The documents are here. It’s real.”

The boardroom erupts into whispers.

I stare at the phone, speechless. My throat feels tight.

Greaves rubs his temples. “Mr. Smith, that effectively makes Miss Smith the majority voting authority through the trust.”

“I’m aware,” Dominic says. “Which means your vote, Chairman, is irrelevant.”

Greaves looks stunned. “That’s…”

“Legal,” Dominic finishes. “And final.” The line clicks. He’s gone.

The board sits frozen. Then, slowly, all eyes turn to me. The secretary’s voice is barely above a whisper. “By majority authority through the trust, Miss Smith remains CEO of Z-Core Holdings.”

When the meeting adjourns, no one congratulates me. They file out quietly, like mourners leaving a wake.

I stay seated, staring at the silent phone in the center of the table. The city hums beyond the glass, a dull heartbeat against the rain-streaked windows.

Dominic Smith. Alive, free, and watching from the shadows all this time.

He never stopped protecting what mattered. My phone buzzes. A message.

Dominic: Don’t thank me. Just make it worth something.