C
“Bring The Coffee, Intern!” The Board Member Snapped. I Placed The Cup Down. “Now Sit In The Back” He Waved. I Walked To The Podium Instead. “Sit Down!” He Yelled. I Tapped The Mic. “I’d Like To Call This Shareholder Meeting To Order. Item One: Removing The Board Member Who…
“Bring the coffee, intern.”
Clay Bearinger’s voice didn’t simply interrupt the room, it slithered across the polished mahogany table with the confidence of a man who had never once been told no in his entire adult life.
Fifty-five years old, permanently tanned from golf trips he wrote off as “strategic retreats,” and possessed of an ego so large it seemed to suck the oxygen from the boardroom, Clay didn’t bother looking up when he spoke, already convinced of his own importance.
I stood there for half a second longer than necessary, the porcelain cup trembling just enough to betray the effort it took to remain calm, not out of fear, but out of restraint, because the alternative involved gravity, boiling liquid, and consequences he wasn’t prepared to face yet.
“I’ll place it right here, Mr. Bearinger,” I said evenly, setting the cup down with surgical precision, aligning it perfectly with the coaster as though I were defusing an explosive rather than complying with a man who mistook cruelty for authority.
“Now sit in the back,” he added, waving his hand dismissively, eyes glued to his phone. “The adults are talking. Try not to breathe too loud.”
I walked past the leather chairs lining the table, chairs that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, and took my seat on a folding metal chair pushed against the wall, the place reserved for observers, assistants, and people Clay believed were beneath him.
For clarity, I am not an intern.
I am forty-five years old, hold an MBA I earned while working nights, and my patience for men like Clay Bearinger evaporated somewhere around the time I realized competence does not automatically protect you from disrespect.
But to them, to this room full of aging suits and polished smiles, I was just Monica from admin, the woman who fetched documents, refilled mugs, and absorbed their casual misogyny like background noise they never expected to speak back.
Clay cleared his throat, the sound unpleasantly wet.
“Let’s get this over with,” he announced, leaning back and unbuttoning his jacket like a king preparing to pass judgment. “Item one, Q3 budget overrun. Yes, the numbers look red, but you have to spend money to make money.”
I opened my notebook and wrote carefully. Aspen retreat: $145,000.
Return on investment: zero.
Warehouse repairs delayed. Staff shortages unresolved. Executive bonuses approved anyway.
Greg, the actuary, shifted uncomfortably. “Clay, the Ohio warehouse is barely operational. We missed logistics targets by twelve percent, and—”
Clay laughed, sharp and dismissive. “Greg, you’re looking at trees. I’m looking at forests. We secured distributor interest.”
“A non-binding letter of intent,” Greg said weakly.
“Morale,” Clay snapped, slamming his palm on the table. “This is why you’re still driving a Toyota.”
Hands went up around the table when the vote for executive bonuses was called, quick and obedient, like trained animals responding to a bell, men who had forgotten what accountability looked like because Clay made sure they never had to see it.
I watched them.
I watched how they avoided the red numbers on the screen, how they nodded along, how none of them mentioned my father’s name even once.
My father built this company from nothing.
One truck, one contract, one refusal to cut corners, and over four decades he turned grit into something real, something that fed families, something that mattered.
He trusted Clay Bearinger.
Two years after my father passed, Clay had turned that trust into a personal expense account.
Clay glanced at me and smirked. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Maybe next year we’ll get a better coffee machine. This one’s lukewarm.”
My pen tore through the page.
I stood up.
“Sit down,” Clay barked, irritation flashing across his face.
Instead, I walked toward the podium.
The room went quiet.
“I’d like to call this shareholder meeting to order,” I said, tapping the microphone. “Item one.”
Clay’s face drained of color.
“Removing the board member who—”
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PART 2
Clay surged to his feet, shouting over me, demanding security, laughing nervously like a man who still believed this was a misunderstanding he could bully his way out of.
But the doors didn’t open, and no one moved, because every shareholder packet in the room had already been updated, every vote pre-counted, every signature legally verified weeks before Clay realized he was no longer in control.
I didn’t raise my voice.
I didn’t need to.
I read aloud the financial irregularities, the executive self-payments disguised as incentives, the neglected safety violations, the email trails he thought had been deleted, and with every sentence, Clay’s confidence collapsed into something smaller and more desperate.
The men who once nodded along wouldn’t meet his eyes now.
Some stared at the table. Some stared at me.
When the final vote was announced, the room exhaled as one.
Clay Bearinger was removed effective immediately.
As security finally approached him, his gaze locked onto mine, hatred sharp and unfiltered, and I realized this wasn’t over, because men like Clay don’t accept consequences quietly.
They wait.
And they retaliate.
C0ntinue below 👇
Bring the coffee, intern. The voice didn’t just cut through the room. It slithered across the mahogany table like an oil slick. That was Clay Bearinger. 55 years old, tan from taxdeductible golf trips to Cabo, and possessing the intellectual depth of a puddle in a parking lot.
He was the kind of guy who thought synergy was a personality trait and sexual harassment was just a suggestion box he could ignore. I paused, the porcelain cup rattling just slightly in its saucer, not from fear, but from the sheer vibrating effort it took not to launch the scalding dark roast directly into his crotch. “I’m placing it right here, Mr.
Bearinger,” I said, my voice flat. “I set the coaster down with the precision of a bomb disposal technician.” “Now sit in the back.” He waved a hand dismissively, not even looking at me. Was too busy scrolling through what I assumed was either stock options or his mistress’s Instagram feed. Adults are talking. Try not to breathe too loud, sweetheart.
I walked past the empty leather chairs at the main table, chairs that cost more than most people’s cars, and took my spot on a folding metal chair against the wall, the kids table, the spectator seat. Let’s get one thing straight before we go any further. I’m not an intern. I’m 45 years old, have an MBA that’s collecting dust, and a tolerance for that evaporated somewhere around 2012.
But to Clay and this boardroom of necrotic suits, I was just Monica from admin. Just a body to fetch files, pour caffeine, and absorb their casual misogyny like a narrative sponge. Speaking of absorbing things, if you’re into stories about corporate dinosaurs getting hit by meteors they didn’t see coming, do me a solid and he subscribe button. Maybe drop a like.
It fuels the rage fire in my soul and keeps the lights on in this confession booth. Anyway, back to the circus. I sat down, pulling a notepad from my bag. Klay cleared his throat, the sound like a garbage disposal grinding a spoon. All right, let’s get this over with, Klay announced, leaning back and unbuttoning his suit jacket.
Item one, the Q3 budget overrun. I know, I know the numbers look red, but you have to spend money to make money, gentlemen. The retreat in Aspen was essential for team building. I wrote in my notebook, Aspen retreat equals $145,000. Return on investment equals zero. Klay’s liver damage equals significant. Essential, piped up, Greg, a nervous actuary who looked like he was constantly expecting a ceiling tile to fall on him.
Clay, we missed our logistics targets by 12%. Warehouse in Ohio is literally held together by duct tape and prayers and we spent six figures on lift tickets. Clay laughed. It was a wet, dismissive sound. Greg, Greg, Greg, you’re looking at the trees. I’m looking at the forest. We secured the tentative agreement with the distributors, didn’t we? They signed a non-binding letter of intent.
Clay Greg stammered. That’s not a contract. That’s a napkin doodle. It’s morale, Greg. Klay slammed his hand on the table. God, this is why you’re still driving a Toyota. No vision. Look, the vote to approve the retroactive bonuses for the executive committee is on the table. All in favor? Hands went up.
Automatic Pavlovian like trained seals barking for a fish, except the fish was a $50,000 quarterly bonus. And the seals were grown men with mortgages they couldn’t afford and mistresses they definitely couldn’t afford. I watched them. I watched the way the light from the projector hit the sheen of sweat on Clay’s forehead. I watched the way the other board members, men my father had hired, men my father had trusted, averted their eyes from the glaring red numbers on the screen.
They were vultures picking a carcass, too busy eating to realize the animal wasn’t dead yet. It was just hibernating. My father founded this company, logistics, trucking, warehousing, gritty, greasy real work. He started with one beat up Ford hauling gravel in 1978. He built it into a regional empire with blood, sweat, and a refusal to cut corners.
He died 2 years ago. And in those two years, Clay Bearinger, a man my father brought on as a consultant to help with modernization, had turned it into his personal piggy bank. They thought I was just the daughter who didn’t want the throne. The quiet one, one who took a low-level analyst job because she didn’t have the head for business.
Clay turned to me, catching me staring. He winked. Actually winked. Don’t worry, honey. Maybe next year we’ll have a budget for a new coffee machine. That swill you brought is lukewarm. I’ll make a note of it, I said. My pen dug into the paper so hard it tore through three sheets. Item one, remove the board member who thinks the majority shareholder is an intern.
See, missed a detail. When dad died, he didn’t leave the voting shares to the board. He didn’t leave them to a trust managed by Clay. He left everything, 51% of the controlling interest, to a shell company called Red Clay Holdings. Clay thought he was Red Clay. He thought the name was in homage to him.
Narcissism is a hell of a drug. It blinds you better than moonshine. He didn’t know that red clay referred to the soil in Georgia where my father was born. Didn’t know that the sole signatory on that LLC was me. And he definitely didn’t know that for the last 6 months, I hadn’t just been bringing coffee.
I’d been counting votes. I’ve been tracking every single scent he siphoned off to his consulting firms in the Cayman Islands. I wasn’t an intern. I was the exterminator and I was just waiting for the roaches to gather in one place. Meeting adjourned. Clay announced, checking his Rolex. I’ve got a tea time at 3.
Keep the engine running. Gentlemen, as they shuffled out, laughing and slapping backs. The smell of their cologne lingered. A mix of sandalwood and entitlement. I stayed in my metal chair. I waited until the room was empty. the silence settling like dust. Then the door creaked. One man had stayed behind. Arthur, the oldest member of the board.
He walked over to the coffee pot, poured the dregs into a cup, and looked at me. He didn’t smile. He didn’t sneer. Coffee is fine. Monica always was. Thanks, Arthur. He’s going to sell the fleet, Arthur said, staring into his black coffee. He’s talking to a liquidation firm next month.
He wants to pivot to asset light logistics, which means firing the drivers and renting trucks we don’t own. I know, I said. Your dad would have put him through a wall, Arthur muttered. Dad was a brawler, Arthur. I stood up, smoothing my skirt. I’m not. Arthur looked at me. Really? Looked at me for the first time in years. No, you’re not. You’re something else.
I’m just the intern, I said, picking up the tray of dirty cups. But Arthur, yeah, don’t sell your shares yet. He raised a bushy eyebrow. Why? because I said walking to the door, the price is about to go up or down. Depends on which side of the table you’re sitting on when the music stops. I walked out into the hallway, the dirty dishes rattling in my hands.
Heavy oak doors of the boardroom swung shut behind me with a sound like a coffin lid closing. Clay was already halfway to the elevator, yelling at someone on his phone. Bring the coffee, intern, I whispered to myself, heading toward the service elevator. Copy that, I answered my own echo. Coffee delivered. Arsenic is next. The office at 8:00 p.m.
is a different beast than the office at 8:00 a.m. In the morning, it’s a theater of performative busyness. People power walking with empty folders, phones ringing just to prove they exist. The hum of fluorescent anxiety. But at night, at night, the building exhales. The air conditioning rattles like a smoker’s cough.
The shadows stretch out over the cubicles, turning the open plan floor into a graveyard of abandoned ambitions. This was my time. I sat in my cubicle, a beige box nestled between the copier and the bathroom. I’m location if you enjoy the smell of ozone and air freshener. But I wasn’t logging into the Monica admin assistant profile.
I pulled a small encrypted USB drive from the lining of my purse. It looked like a cheap promotional stick you’d get a job fair, but inside was a Linux boot drive with a key logger I’d installed on the server 3 months ago. Is that illegal? Probably. Do I care? Let’s just say my moral compass points strictly toward survival.
And right now, the ship was sinking. I booted up. The screen flickered, bypassing the standard corporate login that greeted you with a smiling stock photo diverse team high-fiving over a spreadsheet. Instead, I was staring at raw command lines. I navigated to the board minutes archive. Clay was lazy. That was his fatal flaw. He didn’t hide his theft.
He just bored people to death so they wouldn’t look for it. Buried his embezzlement in documents so dry they could dehydrate a camel. “Let’s see what you’ve been up to, you slippery bastard,” I muttered, lighting a metaphorical cigarette. “I quit smoking 5 years ago, but in my head I’m always three drags into a Marlboro red.
” I open the file labeled Q2 discretionary spending PDF. Page four, consulting fees paid to Apex Solutions, $45,000. Page 12, Tainer for Strategic Advisory, Apex Solutions, $60,000. Page 28, Miscellaneous Logistics Coordination, Apex Solutions, $32,000. I ran a background check on Apex Solutions 2 weeks ago. Their registered address is a P.O.
box in a strip mall in Delaware, right next to a wee buy gold place and a vape shop. Their CEO, a man named Tyler Deran. I’m not kidding. He was so arrogant he used a fight club reference for his shell company. The rage flared up again, hot and sharp like swallowing glass. It wasn’t just the money, it was the disrespect. My mind flashed back to the funeral.
It was raining because of course it was. A cliche Ohio drizzle that soaked into your bones. Clay had stood at the podium, fake tears glistening in his eyes, talking about how my father was a visionary. I remembered standing by the grave afterwards, mud sucking at my heels. Dad had been a hard man, not cruel, but hard.
He had calluses on his hands until the day he died. He used to tell me, “Monica, there are two kinds of people in this world. The ones who build the house and the ones who complain about the draft.” A week before he passed, he called me into his study. The room smelled of old paper and pipe tobacco.
He looked small in his leather chair. Cancer having carved away the man who used to lift transmission blocks by himself. They’re going to come for it, man. He wheezed the vultures clay the banks. They think because you’re a woman and because you’re quiet, you’re weak. I’m not weak, Dad. I had said holding his hand. It felt like dry parchment.
I know. He squeezed back surprisingly strong. But don’t fight them like I would. I used a hammer. You You use a scalpel. Real power isn’t written in ink, honey. It’s hidden in the structure. It’s in the bylaws, in the footnotes. That’s where you kill them. He handed me a heavy bound document. The original article of incorporation from 1978.
Read clause 14, he whispered. And don’t tell a soul until you’re ready to pull the trigger. Back in the dark office, I minimized the window with Clay’s theft and opened a scanned copy of that old document. Clause 14, emergency governance protocols, was a paragraph of dense legal ease that most lawyers would skim over, but translated into plain English, it said, “In the event of documented fiduciary negligence by the sitting chairman, any shareholder possessing more than 15% of voting stock may unilaterally convene an emergency
session without the board’s consent, provided they give 48 hours notice.” Clay thought he was safe because he controlled the board. Thought he could vote down any motion I brought up. But clause 14 bypassed the board entirely. It went straight to the shareholders. And here was the kicker. Klay had diluted the shares over the last 5 years to bring in strategic partners, his golf buddies. He currently held 12%.
The other board members held a combined 20%. The rest was public float. I held 51% through the shell, but I hadn’t claimed it yet. Officially, shares were in trust. If I claimed them, Clay would know. He’d lawyer up, freeze the assets, drag this out in court for 10 years while he drained the company dry. No, I needed to trap him.
I needed him to commit to a course of action so catastrophic that even his buddies couldn’t defend him. I toggled back to the server. I found a draft email in Clay’s outbox. Subject: Project Liquid. I opened it. Two, Sterling Asset Management from C bearing a re fleet liquidation. John, we’re good to go. I’m pushing the vote through next week.
We’ll sell the trucking division for scrap value, lease back the vehicles, and take the immediate cash injection as a performance bonus for the executive team before the quarterly report hits. The intern board won’t know what hit them. Let’s do lunch Tuesday. My stomach churned. He wasn’t just skimming.
He was gutting the fish. Selling the fleet meant the end of the company my father built. meant firing 400 drivers. It meant the end. Scrap value, I whispered. I looked at the time. 9:45 p.m. The cleaning crew would be on this floor soon. I saved the email. I printed the Apex Solutions invoices. I tucked them into the red folder I kept in my bottom drawer.
The intern was done fetching coffee. It was time to start mixing the poison. I logged out, pulled the USB drive, and wiped the keyboard with a wet wipe. Not because of fingerprints, but because touching anything Clay had touched made me feel like I needed a tetanus shot. As I walked to the elevator, my phone buzzed. It was a notification from the company portal.
New agenda item added for next board meeting. Restructuring of logistics division. He was doing it. He was pulling the trigger. Okay, Clay, I said to the empty elevator. You want to play demolition derby? Let’s play. I pressed the button for the lobby. Elevator descended and my stomach dropped with it. Not fear, anticipation.
The feeling you get right before the roller coaster screams down the first drop. I needed allies. I needed to move money. And I needed to do it all while making sure my latte art was up to standard. Tuesday morning smelled like regret and burnt bagels in the breakroom. I was busy unjamming the copier because apparently MBA makes you uniquely qualified to pull shredded paper out of a machine that costs more than a Honda Civic.
When my phone vibrated against my hip, it was the confirmation. Transfer complete. 3% voting rights acquired. I allowed myself a microscopic smile buried quickly under a mask of administrative boredom. Here’s how the shell game works. It’s not about suitcases of cash in dark alleys. That’s for movies.
Ill corporate warfare is fought with routing numbers and Delaware LLC’s. My father’s 51% stake was sitting in a blind trust in the Cayman Islands labeled Blue Horizon Ventures. If I moved it all at once to my US entity, Red Clay Holdings, the SEC filings would trigger a massive flag. Clay’s lawyers would get an alert.
Who is this whale buying half the company? So, I had to be a ghost. I had to be a termite eating the wood from the inside. Had already moved 15% 6 months ago, just under the radar. But to trigger clause 14, the nuclear option, I needed to show a flurry of activity that looked like disconnected investors buying in, not one massive hostile entity.
I went back to my desk, opened a spreadsheet that looked like a catering order form, but was actually my battle map. I had created three new LLC’s last week. One, Sunrise Logistics Partners. Sounds optimistic, right? Two, Ohio Freight Solutions Boring Blends in. Three Kramer and Associates a nod to Seinfeld because if you can’t laugh while destroying your enemies, what’s the point? I was moving the remaining shares from the Cayman Trust into these three buckets.
12% to Sunrise, 12% to Ohio Freight, 12% to Kramer. To Clay, it would look like random market movement. Maybe some speculation because of the liquidation rumors. He wouldn’t see me. He would see market interest. His ego would probably tell him it was because he was such a genius CEO that investors were flocking. Monica, Klay’s assistant, a woman named Sharon, who had the personality of a stressed out Chihuahua, poked her head over my cubicle wall.
“Clay needs the updated P and L statements for the lunch meeting. He wants to know why his dry cleaning isn’t here.” The PNL is in his inbox, Sharon, I said, typing a command to authorize a wire transfer of $2 million while maintaining eye contact. And his dry cleaning is at the front desk. I told him that an hour ago.
Well, tell him again. He stressed. Stressed, I repeated flatly. Right. I hit enter. The money moved. Kramer and associates just bought another block of shares. I walked the P and L statement into Clay’s office. He was on the phone, feet up on the desk, golf club in hand. He was practicing his putting stroke on a horrible green that cost more than my first car. Yeah, screw the pension fund.
He was saying into his headset, laughing, “What are they going to do? Sue us?” By the time it gets to court, the entity won’t exist. Well be liquid, baby. He saw me and muted the call. “Did you bring the sparkling water?” He specifically asked for Pelgro. “We’re out of Pelgro, Mr. Bearinger.
It’s tap water or the tears of the underpaid workforce. Your choice,” he blinked. For a second, he looked confused. Then he laughed. You’re getting feisty, Monica. I like it. Maybe I won’t fire you when we restructure. You’re too kind. I set the papers down. As I leaned over, I saw a notepad on his desk. He had scribbled a list of names.
Count me. Yes, Davies. Yes, Miller. Yes, Arthur. No old fool result. We win. He thought he had the votes locked for the liquidation. He thought Arthur was the only obstacle. I walked out of his office, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He was going to call the vote this Friday.
That was 3 days away. My transfers wouldn’t clear fully for 48 hours. I was cutting it so close I could feel the razor burn. I needed to stall him. Needed to throw a wrench in the gears that would delay the meeting just enough for my investors to show up on the registry. I went to the IT server room.
It was cold, noisy, and nobody ever went in there except the actual IT guy, a kid named Kevin who wore headphones 24/7 and communicated exclusively in nods. “Hey, Kevin,” I shouted over the hum of the cooling fans. He slid one headphone off. “Sup, Monica. Hey.” It was complaining that the projector in the boardroom is flickering.
He wants it fixed before Friday. It’s brand new, Kevin frowned. I know, but you know how he is. Maybe take it down for maintenance for a few days just to be safe. Kevin shrugged. If I take it down, I have to order a part. Won’t be up until Monday. Perfect. I smiled. Hell be furious. But hey, better safe than sorry, right? Whatever.
Kevin slid his headphone back on. Sabotage, maybe. Petty. Absolutely. But if the projector was down, Klay couldn’t show his flashy PowerPoint about why selling the company was a paradigm shift. He couldn’t dazzle the board with graphs that hid the truth. He’d have to rely on paper handouts. and people actually read paper handouts.
I walked back to my desk. Step one, get the gun shares. Step two, load the gun transfers. Step three, jam the enemy’s gun projector. I sat down and opened my email. Notification from Sunrise Logistics Partners. Transaction pending. Estimated completion. Thursday, 11:59 p.m. Friday morning meeting. Thursday night clearance.
I was playing chicken with a freight train and I was driving a unicycle. But here’s the thing about unicycles. They’re easy to turn. Trains aren’t. Hey, Monica. Clay yelled from his office. Where’s my damn pelgrino? Coming, sir? I called back, my voice sweet as antifreeze. Grabbed a bottle of generic seltzer from the fridge, peeled off the label, and walked toward his office.
Enjoy it while you can, Clay, I thought. Because you’re about to swallow something a lot harder to digest. The annual stakeholder gayla was held at the Marriott downtown. It was the kind of event that screamed, “We have too much money and no idea how to spend it. Ice sculptures of trucks, shrimp cocktails the size of fists, jazz band playing covers of top 40 hits that sounded like they were being strangled.
I was there, of course, not as a guest, but as event support, which meant I was wearing a black dress that was invisible enough to be staff, but formal enough not to offend the eyes of the elite, holding a clipboard that gave me the authority to look busy while doing absolutely nothing. The room smelled of prime rib and desperation.
Clay was holding court near the open bar, was wearing a tuxedo that was slightly too tight, his face flushed with jin and victory. He was surrounded by his yesmen, Davies, Miller, and a guy from Sterling Asset Management named Brad who looked like he was manufactured in a frat house laboratory. So I told him Clay was booming.
If you don’t like the severance package, you can take it up with the bankruptcy court because that’s where we’ll be if we don’t sell. The men laughed. A rich throaty sound that vibrated with the knowledge that they would never be the ones filing for bankruptcy. They had parachutes made of gold. The drivers, the warehouse guys, they had parachutes made of anvils.
I stood by a pillar, checking names off a list. Enjoying the party. Monica, I turned. It was Arthur. He was wearing a suit that was clearly 20 years old, fraying slightly at the cuffs. He held a glass of soda water. It’s a lovely display of hubris, Arthur, I said quietly. Ice sculpture is melting, just like our liquidity.
Arthur chuckled darkly. He’s announcing the vote tomorrow morning. He couldn’t wait for the projector. He printed the decks on glossy paper. Cost a fortune. Of course he did. Do you have a plan, Monica? Arthur’s voice dropped to a whisper. Because I’m looking at these men and I see a firing squad and we’re the ones against the wall. I have a plan, I said.
But I need you to do something for me. Name it. Tomorrow the meeting starts. Don’t sit in your usual spot. Sit on the left side. Leave the head of the table open. Clay sits at the head of the table. Not tomorrow, I said. Arthur looked at me. He searched my face for a sign of madness. He must have seen something else.
Maybe a glimmer of my father’s stubbornness. All right, he nodded. I’ll sit on the left and Arthur. Yeah, when I start talking, don’t interrupt. No matter how crazy it sounds. Monica, you’re the intern. You start talking, security will drag you out. Let them try, I said. Across the room, Clay raised his glass. To the future, leaner, meaner, and richer.
To the future, his acolytes chorus. I watched them drink. I felt a cold, hard knot in my stomach. They were celebrating the death of my family’s legacy. They were toasting to the unemployment of 400 people who had sent my dad Christmas cards every year. I saw Brad from Sterling lean in and whisper to Clay. Klay looked over at me.
He pointed. They both laughed. That laugh, that was the fuel. I wasn’t just going to fire him. I was going to dismantle him. I was going to take him apart piece by piece until he was just a man in a bad tuxedo wondering where his life went. I walked over to the DJ booth. The guy was taking a break, eating a slider.
Hey, I said, “Do you take requests?” “Sure,” he mumbled. “Play the gambler by Kenny Rogers.” In about 10 minutes. Kind of old school, isn’t it? It’s a classic, I said. Know when to hold him, know when to fold him. I walked away. 10 minutes later, as Klay was in the middle of a speech about synergy, the song started.
You got to know when to hold him. Klay frowned, looking around. He tried to talk over the music, but the chorus kicked in. know when to walk away and know when to run. I caught his eye from across the room. I didn’t smile. I just raised my clipboard in a mock toast. Looked annoyed, dismissive. He turned back to his friends, shouting to be heard over the country ballad.
He didn’t know he was already running off time. I checked my phone. Sunrise Logistics Partners verified. Ohio Freight Solutions verified. Kramer and Associates verified. The gun was loaded. The safety was off. I left the party before the song ended. I had work to do. I had to prepare the red folder and I had to iron a blouse.
Tomorrow wasn’t just a meeting. It was an execution. I didn’t sleep. Sleep is for people who aren’t plotting a corporate coupe. Instead, I spent the night in my living room surrounded by stacks of paper that smelled like warm toner and justice. My apartment is modest. Clay probably spends more on wine in a month than I spend on rent in a year.
That’s by design. My father taught me that wealth screams, but wealth whispers. I was whispering so quietly I was practically a mime. The red folder lay open on my coffee table. It wasn’t actually red. It was a standard Manila folder that I had marked with a red Sharpie. Agenda I had scrolled on the front.
Inside were three documents. One, the shareholder registry updated as of 4:00 a.m. this morning at Clay Holdings. Me 15% Sunrise Logistics Me 12% Ohio FreightMe 12% Kramer and Associates. Me 12% Arthur Ally 5% Total Control 56% 2 The Bearinger Report: A 20-page forensic autopsy of Clay’s expense account.
I had categorized every questionable transaction. Category A, fraud, the fake consulting firms. Category B, gross negligence, the Aspen trip. Category C, just plain behavior. Using company funds to pay for his divorce lawyer. Three, the resolution. A single sheet of paper drafted by my lawyer who thinks I’m insane but cashes the checks.
Motion to remove chairman of the board for cause. Motion to terminate employment immediately. Motion to appoint interim CEO Monica Jeller. No relation sadly. I picked up the registry. 56%. It was a beautiful number. It was a sledgehammer. But I needed one more thing. I needed the moral mandate. At 6:00 a.m., I drove to a diner on the outskirts of town, the kind of place where the menu is laminated and sticky, and the coffee tastes like battery acid.
Sitting in a booth in the back was Mrs. Higgins. She was 70 years old. Her husband had been one of my dad’s first drivers. She held 0.05% of the company stock, a token gift my dad gave to early employees. He had offered to buy her out last week for pennies on the dollar. To save her the trouble of the bankruptcy, he had told her.
“Monica,” she smiled, her skin like crinkled tissue paper. “You look tired, honey.” “I’m okay, Mrs. Higgins. Did you bring the paper?” She reached into her oversized handbag and pulled out a proxy form. “That man, Mr. Bearinger, he called me again yesterday. He said if I didn’t sell, the stock would be worth zero by Monday.” “He’s lying, Mrs.
Higgins. I know.” She said, “Your father never hired liars. He hired men who looked you in the eye.” She tapped the paper. I signed it. I’m giving my proxy to you. Not to that shell company. To you. Thank you. You go get him, honey. For Earl. Earl was her husband. He died of a heart attack in the cab of his truck 10 years ago. I took the paper.
It wasn’t about the 0.05%. I didn’t need it for the math. I needed it for the soul. Needed to walk into that boardroom holding Earl’s ghost in my hand. I drove to the office. The sun was coming up, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange. I parked in the general lot miles away from the reserved executive spaces.
I walked into the building. The security guard, Mike, nodded at me. Morning, Monica. Big day. Huge day, Mike. Hey, do me a favor? Yeah. If Clay calls you later to escort someone out, make sure you check who he’s pointing at. Mike laughed. You planning a rumble? Something like that. I went up to the executive floor.
It was silent, the calm before the artillery barrage. I placed the red folder on the table at the far end of the boardroom, the seat opposite clays. Then I went to the break room and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Because if I was going to watch the world burn, I wanted a caffeine buzz. At 8:45 a.m., the elevator chimed.
He walked in. He looked hung over. His eyes were puffy, and he smelled like mouthwash and regret. “Coffee?” he barked, not breaking stride. “On the warmer, sir,” I said. “Good. set up the room, handouts at every seat, and get me two Advil. Yes, sir. I walked into the boardroom. I placed Clay’s glossy liquidation plan at every seat, and then underneath each one, I slid a single sheet of paper.
Agenda item: review of fiduciary duties. It was buried. Wouldn’t see it until they lifted the main packet. I stood at the head of the table. I ran my hand over the leather chair. Not today, Clay, I whispered. Today, the intern sits here. I heard voices in the hall. The board members were arriving. It was showtime. The boardroom filled up with the usual cast of characters.
There was Davies checking his watch every 30 seconds, clearly wishing he was on his yacht. There was Miller texting furiously under the table. Was Brad from Sterling looking like a shark who just smelled blood in the water. And there was Arthur. He walked in slowly, leaning on his cane. He looked at the table. He saw the name cards. Clay’s card was at the head.
Mine was nowhere. Arthur looked at me. I gave a microscopic nod. He walked past his usual seat on the right and sat on the left, leaving the chair at the opposite end of the table, the foot of the table empty. Arthur, you’re in the wrong spot. Clay boomed, slamming a stack of files down. Old age getting to the memory.
Just felt like a change of scenery, Clay. Arthur rasped. Suit yourself. Let’s get started. We have a hard stop at 11. I have a lunch. You always have a lunch, I thought. I was standing by the sideboard holding the coffee pot. the invisible woman. All right, Clay stood up.
As you know, we are here to discuss the strategic divevestature of the fleet assets. Sterling has put together a very generous offer. Fire sale, Arthur interrupted. A strategic realignment, Klay corrected, his face tightening. Look, the industry is changing. We can’t compete with the giants on volume. We need to be agile. Asset light.
We’re a trucking company, Clay. Arthur said, if we don’t have trucks, we’re just a glorified travel agency for boxes. We’re logistics solutions provider. Clay sneered. God, you’re stuck in the 80s. Anyway, I have the votes. We discussed this last night. Davies, I’m on board, Davies muttered. Same, Miller said, not looking up from his phone. Excellent.
Then let’s make it formal. I moved to accept the offer from Sterling Asset Management to acquire all rolling stock and real estate assets for the sum of point of order, a voice said. Klay stopped. He looked around. Who said that? It was me. I was standing at the foot of the table. I had put down the coffee pot.
I was holding the red folder. Clay stared at me. He blinked. He was trying to process a glitch in the matrix. Monica, what the hell are you doing? We’re in a meeting. Refill the water and get out. I said, point of order, Mr. Chairman, I said. My voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady. It was the voice of a woman who had checked the structural integrity of the bridge before driving a tank over it.
You’re an admin assistant. Clay laughed, a nervous barking sound. You don’t have a point of order. You have a job description. You’re currently violating it. Security. He reached for the phone. I wouldn’t do that, I said, sliding a document down the long mahogany table. It spun across the polished surface and stopped perfectly in front of him.
What is this? He didn’t pick it up. That I said is a notorized declaration of proxy voting rights. Specifically, representing 56% of the outstanding voting shares of this company. The room went silent. kind of silence you hear right after a car crash before the screaming starts. Brad from Sterling narrowed his eyes.
What is she talking about? Clay. Clay picked up the paper. His hands were shaking slightly. He squinted at the text. Red Clay holdings Sunrise Logistics. Who? Who are these? Those are me, I said. Well, entities controlled by me and Mrs. Higgins and Arthur. Arthur smiled. A slow wolfish smile. I believe she has the floor clay.
His face went from tan to a pale sickly gray. This This is fraud. You can’t just You’re the secretary. I’m the daughter of the founder, I said, stepping forward. And I’m the majority shareholder. And according to clause 14 of the bylaws, which I’m sure you’ve read, being such a diligent chairman, I am invoking my right to suspend the current agenda and introduce a new one.
You can’t do that, Davey stood up. This is highly irregular. Sit down, Bob, I snapped. Or I’ll have the forensic audit of your expense account projected on the wall. I know about the consulting fees to your brother-in-law. Davey sat down so fast he almost missed the chair. Clay looked at the paper then at me. The arrogance was cracking. The facade was crumbling.
Monica, he said, his voice taking on a weedling, patronizing tone. Honey, you don’t understand these things. This is high finance. You’re upset about your dad. I get it, but let’s not do something we’ll regret. Oh, I’m not regretting anything, I said. I’m just getting started. I walked to the head of the table. I stood right next to him.
I could smell the fear coming off him. It smelled better than the coffee. Move, I said. Excuse me. You’re in my seat. Move. He looked at the board. Nobody moved. Brad looked away. Davies was studying his cuticles. Clay stood up. He looked small. He looked like a man who had just realized his parachute was actually an anvil.
He sat down in the leather chair. It was still warm from his body heat. It felt disgusting. It felt like victory. Item one, I said, opening the red folder. The termination of Clay bearinger. The air in the boardroom had changed. It was no longer a club. It was a tribunal. I sat at the head of the table, the red folder open in front of me.
Clay was standing off to the side, leaning against the wall where I used to sit. Visual irony was so thick you could cut it with a knife. This is ridiculous, Klay sputtered, trying to regain his footing. You can’t just walk in here with some fake papers and hijack a board meeting. I’m calling legal. Legal is already here, I said, nodding toward the door.
My lawyer, a sharpeyed woman named Sarah, walked in. She was carrying a briefcase that looked heavy enough to bludgeon someone. Mr. Bearinger, Sarah said, placing a stack of files on the table. It represent Red Clay holdings and the majority interest. The filings were submitted to the SEC this morning. The special session is valid.
She’s a damn secretary, Klay shouted, pointing a trembling finger at me. She doesn’t know how to run a lemonade stand, let alone a logistics firm. And you do? I asked my voicecom. Let’s review your performance, Clay. I pulled the Bearinger report from the folder. Page one, I read, $300,000 in marketing expenses paid to a firm called Blue Wave Media.
Interesting thing about Blue Wave. Their registered agent is your wife, Karen, and their only client is us. The board members shifted in their seats. Corruption is fine when everyone gets a cut, but when one guy is eating the whole pie, the others get jealous. That That was legitimate outreach, Klay stammered. Page two, I continued.
Private jet charters to Cabo San Lucas manifest lists. You end a Miss Trixie, Laru. Is she a supply chain expert? Clay. Arthur let out a bark of laughter. This is a witch hunt. Clay screamed. His face was turning a dangerous shade of purple. I saved this company. When the fuel prices spiked, who negotiated the hedge? You didn’t, I said. Greg did. You were in Napa.
I looked at Greg, the nervous actuary. He looked up, surprised. Greg, I said. Did Klay negotiate the fuel hedge? Greg looked at Klay then at me. He swallowed hard. No, I did, Clay. Klay signed the paperwork. Traitor. Klay hissed. It’s over, Klay, I said. I looked down the table at the other men. You have a choice.
You can vote with me to remove him for cause, which means he gets no severance, no golden parachute, and we don’t sue him for the embezzled funds immediately, or you can stick with him, in which case we’ll sue every single one of you for breach of fiduciary duty, and I will make sure your names are dragged through every business journal in the country.
” I paused, “And I have the receipts for all of you.” Davies went pale. Now, Monica, let’s not be hasty. If Clay has been misappropriating funds, we certainly didn’t know. We were deceived. Miller chimed in. Shocked. I’m shocked. The rats were abandoning the ship. It was beautiful. Klay looked at them. His eyes wide with betrayal.
You cowards. I made you rich. You made yourself rich. Clay, Arthur said quietly. We just picked up the crumbs. I demand a vote. Klay yelled. Right now, I demand a vote of confidence. Careful what you wish for, I said. I am the chairman. I run this room. He lunged toward the table. For a second, I thought he was going to hit me, but he just grabbed the water pitcher, the one I had filled, and threw it.
It shattered against the wall, splashing water over the framed portrait of my father. The room went dead silent. Water dripped down my father’s face in the photo, looking like tears. That was it. That was the moment. I stood up slowly. I wasn’t the intern anymore. I wasn’t the quiet daughter. I was the HVAC technician of vengeance, and the AC was broken.
You’re right, Clay, I said, my voice ice cold. You demand a vote. Let’s give you one. I looked at the board motion to remove Clay Bearinger as chairman and CEO effective immediately for cause including embezzlement, fraud, and gross negligence. Do I have a second? Second, Arthur said, his voice clear as a bell. All in favor, I asked. I raised my hand. Arthur raised his.
Then Greg raised his. Then slowly Davies raised his hand. Then Miller, even Brad from Sterling, seeing the deal was dead, raised his hand. Unanimous, I said. Klay stood there panting, his chest heaving. Looked at the forest of hands. You can’t do this, he whispered. I’m the only one who knows how this place works.
No, Clay, I said. You’re the only one who forgot. I pressed the intercom button on the phone. Mike, you can come in now. Mike, the security guard opened the door. He looked at the shattered picture, the water on the wall, and then at Clay. Everything okay, Miss Jeller? Mike asked, looking at me. Not at Clay, at me. Mr. Bearinger was just leaving.
Mike, please escort him to his office to collect his personal effects. One box supervised. No electronics, no files. You can’t touch my computer. Clay shrieked. My contacts are in there. Company property, I said. And since you used company email to plan your little liquidation sale, I think we’ll keep that hard drive for the forensic accountants. They love a good puzzle.
Klay stared at me with pure hate. You’ll run this place into the ground in 6 months. Our glorified secretary maybe, I said. But at least I know how to make coffee. Mike stepped forward. Let’s go, Mr. Bearinger. Klay straightened his jacket. He tried to muster some dignity, but it’s hard to look dignified when you’ve just been overthrown by the person you treated like furniture.
He walked out, Mike shadowing him closely. The door closed. I looked at the remaining board members. They were silent, terrifyingly attentive. Were waiting to see if I was going to execute them next. Sit down, I said. They sat. Here’s the new reality, I began, pacing slowly around the table. The sail to Sterling is dead.
Brad, you can go back to your boss and tell him the fleet isn’t for sale. Brad nodded, gathered his things, and practically ran out of the room. Davies Miller, I looked at them. You’re staying for now because firing the whole board in one day scares the banks. But you’re on notice. No more retreats. No more consulting fees. You work for me now.
And I read the receipts. They nodded vigorously. They would have agreed to wear clown shoes if I asked them to. Greg, I turned to the actuary. You’re the new CFO. Greg’s jaw dropped me. But I’m just You’re the only one who noticed the fuel hedge, I said. And you’re the only one who hasn’t tried to steal from me. The job is yours.
Fix the budget. Find money for the drivers. Cut the executive bonuses to zero until we’re profitable. Zero? Davey squeaked. “Zero,” I said. “You’re lucky I’m not asking for refund on the last 5 years.” I walked back to the head of the table. I looked at the mess on the floor, the shattered glass.
And one more thing, I said, “We’re not Asset Light anymore. We’re trucking company. We haul things. We fix things. We get our hands dirty. If you don’t like dirt, there’s the door.” Nobody moved. I sat down. Felt exhausted. My hands were trembling slightly under the table. It wasn’t triumph. It was adrenaline crash. But then I looked at Arthur. He was smiling.
He gave me a small salute with his cane. Good meeting, chairman, he said. Meeting adjourned, I said. I waited until they all left. I needed a minute. I walked over to the portrait of my father. I used a napkin to wipe the water off the glass. Did I use the scalpel, “Dad,” I whispered. He didn’t answer.
He didn’t look disappointed either. I looked out the window. Down in the parking lot, I saw Clay walking to his Porsche. He was carrying a small cardboard box. He threw it into the passenger seat. Got in and peeled out, nearly hitting a delivery van. Good riddance, I said. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Kevin in it.
Projector is fixed. Also locked Clay’s account. He tried to remote wipe his phone. I blocked it. Lol. I smiled. Intern network was strong. I walked back to the table. My coffee was cold. I picked up the cup. I didn’t drink it. I poured it into the plant in the corner. Here’s to new growth, I said. I picked up the phone to call Mrs. Higgins.
I wanted to tell her that Earl’s company was safe. But before I dialed, I saw the agenda for next week. Item one, repair the roof at the Ohio warehouse. Item two, driver raises. Real work. Finally. 3 months later. Room smells different now. We got rid of the expensive leather chairs and replaced them with ergonomic mesh ones.
Not as pretty, but you don’t fall asleep in them. The mahogany table is still there, but it’s covered in blueprints and spreadsheets, not glossy brochures. I was sitting at the head of the table reviewing the quarterly numbers with Greg. We’re up 4%, Greg said, pointing to a graph. The driver retention is the highest it’s been in a decade. The raises paid off.
Fewer accidents, better delivery times, and the debt, I asked. We’re servicing it. It’s tight, Monica. We’re eating ramen noodles in terms of cash flow, but we’re not drowning. I like ramen, I said. Clay is gone. He tried to sue us for wrongful termination. I counter sued for the embezzlement. We settled out of court.
He dropped his suit, agreed not to press criminal charges, provided he pays back 50% of what he stole, and signs a non-disclosure agreement that basically says if he ever mentions this company again, I get his kidney. Last I heard, he’s consulting for a crypto startup in Miami. Good luck to them.
Davies and Miller resigned last month. They couldn’t handle the new culture, i.e. actually working. replaced them with the head of our mechanics union and a logistics professor from the state university. The board meetings are louder now, more arguing, more swearing. I love it. Arthur is still here. He sleeps through half the meetings, but when he wakes up, he usually points out the one flaw in the plan that saves us a million dollars.
I walked out of the boardroom and down to the break room. The coffee machine was hissing. A new guy, a young intern named Josh, struggling with the filter. He looked terrified. It jams if you force it, I said, walking up behind him. He jumped. Oh, sorry, Miss Jeller. I was just I was trying to make a fresh pot for the meeting. Here, I said, let me show you.
I took the filter basket. I fixed the jam. I poured the grounds. I hit the button. Thanks, Josh said. I heard I heard you used to do this before you were CEO. I looked at the coffee dripping into the pot. Dark hot. Necessary. I still do this, Josh. I said, I just sign the checks now, too, right? He smiled nervously. and Josh.
Yeah, if anyone treats you like furniture, take notes. Write down everything because the furniture usually outlasts the tenants. He laughed. I will. I walked back to my office, my dad’s old office. I sat in his chair. It was still a little too big for me, but I was growing into it. I opened my laptop. I logged into Reddit, hosted by you/thecleaner45.
Update: The rat is gone. The ship is floating. And I bought a new coffee machine. Thanks for listening to the rant. Moral of the story, never underestimate the person who knows where the bodies are buried, especially if they’re the one digging the hole. I hit post. Then I closed the laptop, picked up the phone, and dialed the warehouse in Ohio. Hey, it’s Monica.
How’s that coolant leak coming along? Yeah. Well, use the good tape this time. We can afford it. I leaned back. The air conditioning hummed. It wasn’t rattling anymore. It was a smooth, steady drone. The system was fixed for now. And if it broke again, well, I had my toolkit and I knew exactly how to use it. You don’t always need revenge when the truth is doing the work for you.
Today’s story was a quiet reminder of that. Appreciate you sticking around. More coming next time.
