Four Months Too Late
No one uttered a sound. The atmosphere in the boardroom felt heavier than open anger.
Dominic’s face completely lost its color. His fingers gripped the edge of the mahogany table, as if he literally required the wood to keep his knees from buckling beneath him.
“That is mathematically impossible,” he whispered.
I let out a short, tired laugh. Not because a single element of this was humorous, but because I had rehearsed this confrontation a thousand times in my head while sitting in the dark. I had anticipated rage, tears, defensiveness, or a theatrical apology. But standing here in reality, all I felt was an overwhelming, clinical exhaustion.
“It is entirely possible,” I said, looking at him. “You simply weren’t present to check the data.”
His jaw feathered violently. “Why didn’t you notify me?”
The sheer audacity of the question was so massive compared to the reality of the last year that I could barely draw air into my lungs.
