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.