CHAPTER 188: BURY MY HUSBAND

The drive to O’Brien Tower was a blur. When we turned the corner onto the main avenue, I gasped audibly.

Smoke was still rising from the top floor like a black stain against the blue afternoon sky. The street below was chaos: a circus of emergency vehicles, police tape, and media feeding frenzy.

Reporters and news vans crowded every inch of the cordoned perimeter, cameras pointed upward.

"I’m taking us in through the underground logistics bay. It’s the only clear entrance that won’t turn into a press gauntlet."

We descended into the dark concrete belly of the building, the temperature dropping with each level down.

As the car stopped, my door was wrenched open not by a driver, but by Brennan himself. He looked pale, almost grey, clutching a thick leather binder to his chest.

"Mrs. O’Brien," he breathed, his eyes widening as he took in my blood-stained clothes. "I... I heard what happened. Is Axel...?"

"He’s alive, Brennan," I said, stepping out of the car on legs that felt like they might give out any second. I forced them to hold me upright. "But he’s out of play for now. Which means I’m in charge."

"Right. Yes. Of course." Brennan fell into step beside me as Tye ushered us toward the freight elevator, his hand hovering near the small of my back in case I stumbled. "We have a significant problem, Layla. Scotfield has already called the meeting to order. They moved the time up by thirty minutes. They’re claiming ’exigent circumstances.’"

"They’re trying to vote before I get there," I said, watching the floor numbers climb on the digital display. "Bastards. Where are we going?"

"Executive gym and lounge on the 38th floor," Tye said. "It’s secure, swept by our people. Your preparation team is waiting."

The elevator pinged.

I stepped out into the lounge, a space usually reserved for visiting VIPs and high-level negotiations.

Sarah, my assistant from Eclipse Beauty, was there, along with a stylist I didn’t recognise holding what looked like a professional makeup kit. A rolling rack of clothes stood in the centre of the room like a fashion emergency response unit.

"Okay, everyone," I called. "I have forty minutes before things go down the drain. I need a shower, I need a suit, and I need to look like I didn’t just survive a bombing. Let’s move."

I walked into the attached bathroom and locked the door behind me.

I stripped off the ruined blouse, the skirt stained with dried blood... Axel’s blood. My hands shook as I fumbled with buttons and zippers. I turned the shower on as hot as I could stand it, steam filling the small space.

As the scalding water hit me, I watched red and grey swirl down the drain. Axel’s blood, soot from the explosion and the evidence of how close I’d come to dying.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to curl into a ball on the tile floor and cry until my throat bled. I wanted to be by Axel’s bedside, holding his hand, keeping vigil.

If you cry now, you lose, a voice in my head whispered. If you break now, everything he bled for is gone.

I scrubbed my skin until it was raw and pink. I washed the smoke from my hair with shaking hands. And when I finally stepped out, wrapping myself in the provided robe, I forced myself to look in the mirror.

My eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, but the fire behind them was cold and hard as diamond.

I walked back out, wrapped in the robe, water still dripping from my hair.

The stylist immediately stepped forward, gesturing to the clothing rack. "Mrs. O’Brien, I brought several options. Neutrals, softer tones, beiges and greys to garner sympathy from the board. Show vulnerability, make them..."

"No sympathy," I cut her off sharply. I walked to the rack and pushed aside the beige blazers and soft grey suits. My hand landed on a structured, midnight-blue suit jacket and matching trousers. "This one."

"Are you sure? The colour is quite bold, and given the circumstances—"

"I’m sure. They don’t need to see a grieving wife. They need to see the person who’s about to take charge."

Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed.

I looked at myself in the full-length mirror mounted on the wall; the soot-stained, traumatised wife was gone. The Interim CEO was staring back at me.

"Brennan," I said, turning to face the lawyer who was pacing nervously by the window. "Walk me through the bylaws. Fast."

He jumped slightly at being addressed. "Yes. Right. Section 4, Article 12 of the corporate charter. In the event of the CEO’s incapacitation due to a medical emergency, the holder of the Durable Power of Attorney may exercise all voting rights attached to the CEO’s shares for the duration of said incapacitation."

"And what’s their counter-argument going to be?"

"Scotfield will almost certainly argue that you are emotionally compromised due to the trauma of the event. He’ll try to invoke a ’Fit and Proper Person’ clause to temporarily suspend your voting rights in favour of the Board’s collective decision-making authority."

"Let him try," I said, slipping my feet into black stilettos that added three inches to my height. "Do we have the medical proxy documentation?"

"Signed, notarised, and airtight." Brennan handed me the heavy binder. "Everything you need is in here."

"Let’s go," I said.

We took the elevator up to the 42nd floor. The hallway was eerily silent, compared to the chaos everywhere else in the building. The heavy double doors of the boardroom loomed at the end of the corridor like the gates to a battlefield.

Two security guards in tactical gear nodded to Tye and stepped aside without a word.

I could hear a voice booming from inside, even through the thick doors. William Scotfield, holding court.

"...undeniable tragedy for the O’Brien family, indeed, and our thoughts are with Axel during his recovery. But we have a fiduciary duty to the shareholders that supersedes personal sentiment. The stock is in an absolute freefall, down 32% and dropping.

Investor confidence is shattered. We need a steady hand at the helm immediately. Therefore, I propose we vote without delay on the motion to appoint myself as Interim CEO to stabilise the company during this crisis..."

Tye’s hand moved to the door handle.

"Wait," I said quietly.

I took a deep breath.

I thought of Axel tackling me to the floor. I thought of the blood pooling beneath him. I thought of Marco’s note in that poisoned gift box. Enjoy her while you can. Time is running out.

Another deep breath.

I lifted my chin and straightened my spine. "Open it."

Tye threw both doors open simultaneously, making every head in the room snap toward the entrance.

William Scotfield was standing at the head of the table, Axel’s spot, with one hand raised mid-gesture, his mouth hanging open in shock.

I didn’t wait for an invitation. I didn’t pause at the threshold. I walked in, flanked by Brennan and Tye, into the room like I owned it, because legally, I did.

"Mrs. O’Brien," Scotfield stammered, lowering his hand awkwardly. "We weren’t expecting you. We were informed you were receiving medical attention at the hospital."

"I imagine you were told a lot of convenient things, William," I said in a voice that carried to every corner of the room without needing to shout. "Assumptions were made. How unfortunate for you."

I walked straight to the head of the table, my eyes locked on Scotfield. I stopped right in front of him, close enough that he had to look up slightly to meet my gaze.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I just stared at him with all the cold fury I felt.

He cleared his throat. Flushed red from his collar to his receding hairline. And awkwardly shuffled to the side, vacating Axel’s chair like a squatter caught trespassing.

I still didn’t sit. Instead, I placed the heavy leather binder on the polished mahogany table with a thud that made several board members flinch.

I looked around the table slowly, making eye contact with every single board member present. Some looked ashamed and immediately looked away. Others looked defiant, chins raised. A few seemed merely uncomfortable, caught between loyalty and self-preservation.

Finally, I spoke.

"I am Layla O’Brien," I announced. "I am the majority shareholder of the O’Brien Group by proxy. I hold the Durable Power of Attorney for Axel O’Brien, duly executed and notarised. And as of this moment, this meeting is under my authority and subject to my order."

I placed both hands flat on the table and leaned forward, letting them see the steel in my eyes.

"Now. Who wants to tell me why you’re trying to bury my husband before he’s even cold?"