Chapter 63: The Fall of Ambition Ethan POV

I adjusted my tie in the elevator, my fingers fumbling with the knot, the faint hum of the machinery doing little to calm my nerves. I stepped out onto the boardroom floor, my polished shoes clicking against the marble, my briefcase swinging lightly in my hand. The glass doors loomed ahead, and I pushed them open, the hinges squeaking as I entered.

The board was already seated, a dozen suits around the long oak table, papers rustling as they flipped through reports. I set my briefcase down with a thud, pulling out my chair and sitting, my hands resting on the table’s edge. "Let’s get this started," I said, my voice steady, though my leg bounced under the table.

Cummings, the gray-haired chairman, cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. "Ethan, we’ve called this meeting to address your leadership—or lack thereof."

I leaned forward, tapping my pen on the table. "Lack thereof? I’ve built this company from scratch—every prototype, every deal, that’s me."

Patel, the finance head, slid a stack of papers across the table, his fingers drumming on the edge. "And yet, stock’s down 15% this week alone. Your ties to Sinclair Global are dragging us under."

I grabbed the papers, flipping through them, my eyes scanning the plummeting numbers. "That’s not my fault—Victor’s the one—"

"Your fault or not," Cummings interrupted, leaning back, folding his arms, "you hired Sophia Sinclair. Her controversy’s on you."

I slammed my fist on the table, the wood vibrating under my hand. "She was a damn good hire! You’re throwing away years of work over this?"

"Years you’ve jeopardized," Patel shot back, picking up a pen and pointing it at me. "The media’s eating us alive—scandal after scandal."

I stood, pacing to the window, my hands shoving into my pockets. "I trusted her to help us—her insight into Sinclair was gold!"

"Gold that’s turned to ash," Cummings said, his voice cold as he shuffled a report. "We’ve lost contracts, investors—"

"Because of Victor, not me!" I shouted, turning back, my voice breaking, my hand slicing through the air.

Patel stood too, grabbing a water bottle and twisting the cap off, taking a sip. "You vouched for her, Ethan. That’s on your judgment."

I walked back, leaning on the table, my palms pressing into the wood. "And I’d do it again—she’s brilliant. You’re just scared of the headlines!"

"Scared?" Cummings laughed, a dry sound, picking up his glasses and cleaning them with a cloth. "We’re practical. We vote today—your tenure as CEO."

I grabbed my chair, pulling it back with a scrape, sitting hard. "Fine. Vote. But you’re gutting the future of this company."

They murmured among themselves, papers rustling, pens scratching as they marked ballots. I sipped from my coffee mug, the lukewarm brew bitter on my tongue, my foot tapping faster against the floor. Cummings collected the slips, stacking them neatly, then looked up.

"Eight to four," he said, setting the stack down with a soft tap. "You’re out, Ethan."

I slammed my mug down, coffee sloshing over the rim, my hands gripping the table’s edge. "You’re kidding me—years of my life, and you just—"

"It’s done," Patel said, standing, adjusting his tie with a tug. "Your prototypes stay with Argus—company property."

I shoved my chair back, the legs screeching against the floor, pacing again. "You’re stripping me of everything—my work, my ideas!"

"Legal’s clear," Cummings replied, folding his arms again, his glasses glinting under the lights. "You signed the contracts."

I grabbed my briefcase, yanking it open, tossing in a few pens and a notepad with sharp jerks. "This isn’t over—I’ll fight this!"

"You’re welcome to try," Patel said, picking up his phone, scrolling casually. "Security’s waiting to escort you out."

I slammed the briefcase shut, the clasp snapping loud in the room, then grabbed a stack of papers—my notes, my plans—and shoved them under my arm. "You’re all cowards," I spat, heading for the door, kicking it open with my foot, the glass rattling.

In my office, I pulled drawers open, tossing files into a cardboard box—photos, a stress ball, a spare tie. I ripped a prototype sketch off the wall, rolling it up and tucking it into the box, my hands shaking. "Bastards," I muttered, grabbing my coat from the rack, slinging it over my shoulder.

I walked to the elevator, my boots thudding, the box under my arm shifting as I jabbed the down button. Inside, I leaned against the wall, adjusting my grip, my breath heavy. The lobby was quiet, a janitor sweeping near the entrance, the broom swishing softly.

I stepped out, spotting a trash can by the doors, and kicked it hard, the metal clanging as it tipped, spilling wrappers onto the floor. "Years wasted," I said, my voice low, pushing through the glass doors, the cold air hitting my face.

Outside, I set the box on the curb, fishing my keys from my pocket, unlocking my car with a beep. As I opened the door, I overheard voices—shareholders, clustered near the building, their coats flapping in the wind.

"Cummings says Sinclair Global’s interested," one said, lighting a cigarette, the flame flickering. "They’ll buy us out—clean slate."

"Sinclair?" another replied, adjusting his scarf, his voice low. "Victor’s circling already?"

I froze, my hand on the car door, my keys jangling as I turned to listen, stunned, the words sinking in like a punch.