No small talk. No move to leave. He just stood there, waiting.
Posture perfect. But his gaze drifted past my face to the bookshelf behind me, as if this were nothing more than a trivial errand.
I looked up at him.
He didn't flinch. He even smiled—a smile with something unreadable beneath it.
Normally, when Mary sent documents like this—or had her secretary bring them—I'd glance at the total and sign. She handled HR and Finance. I'd always given her free rein.
But today, I picked up the folder. Opened it.
Page by page, I went through the list. Bonuses ranged from tens of thousands to a few hundred thousand—consistent with this year's performance.
Then I reached the last page.
My hand stopped.
Next to Dean Gilbert's name was a long string of digits.
Year-end bonus: $1,000,000.
And in the remarks column, a single line: Plus one company BMW 730Li.
One million dollars. A BMW 7 Series.
For an executive assistant who'd been here less than six months.
My eyes lingered on that number for two seconds. Then I looked up.
Dean was watching me. That faint smile had deepened, and something flickered in his gaze—impatience.
"Chairman Dickerson, is there a problem?"
His tone stayed polite. But there was an edge now.
A push.
"Ms. Henson is... waiting to head out."
He made a point of emphasizing those last two words.
I picked up the Montblanc pen from my desk and uncapped it.
The nib hovered over the signature line. It didn't come down.
"Mr. Gilbert, you've been with the company for almost five months now, haven't you?"
My voice was steady. Unreadable.
"One week shy of five months."
His answer came quick and easy.
I said nothing more. I signed.
"Thank you, Chairman Dickerson."
He took the folder I handed back, flipped through to confirm the signature, then closed it.
And in that split second as he turned to leave, I saw it clearly—his lips moved, fast and silent.
No sound. But the shape was unmistakable. Three syllables:
Old bastard.
He didn't even bother closing the door behind him.
I stayed in my chair. Didn't move.
The pen cap clicked back into place with a soft snap.
Sunlight streamed through the window, falling across one corner of my desk. Almost too bright.
I pressed the intercom for my secretary.
"Chairman Dickerson?"
"Close the door."
"Yes, sir."
A soft click, and the office fell silent again.
My eyes drifted to the minimized surveillance email icon. My finger brushed the mouse once, then stilled.