But as soon as I stepped forward, Mr. Webb, the family’s consigliere, materialized before me, a false smile plastered on his face.
“Arwen,” he said, adjusting his glasses with a practiced air of authority, his tone a thin veneer of civility over steel. “No need to rush off just yet. Before stepping down, you’ll need to sign a declaration affirming that none of your actions while under this family’s roof continue to affect our business. You’ll also be required to sign a binding non-compete clause—preventing you from leveraging your connections to steal clients or allies once you leave.”
Not long ago, I had been Sebastian’s partner, respected and feared, my ability to broker alliances earning me the deference of everyone in the room. Mr. Webb had once bowed to me, addressing me as “Mrs. Veylor” with every ounce of calculated reverence. That time had passed. Now, he looked down at me with a smug, self-satisfied grin, as if diminishing me could restore his own sense of power.
I studied his pathetic display and replied, voice cold as steel. “A declaration? A non-compete? And why, exactly, would I ever sign either of them?”