THE BOSS BEAST

CHAPTER 6 — THE NAME NO ONE COULD AVOID

The room felt smaller than it used to. Not because the walls had moved, but because hope had. The executives sat around the long table, shoulders slumped, ties loosened, eyes hollow.

The screens on the wall glowed with numbers no one wanted to read anymore. Richard Hale stood at the head of the boardroom. Not pacing this time. Standing still. That alone unsettled them. “With the way things are going,”

Richard said slowly, his voice stripped of its old force, “we may completely shut down in less than eight months.”

No one gasped. No one reacted. They already knew. He swallowed, then added quietly, “If nothing changes.”

A heavy silence followed. Eight months. Not a threat. Not drama. A countdown. Richard exhaled and placed both palms on the table. “People… what can we do?”

The question hung in the air, fragile and dangerous. This wasn’t the Richard Hale they knew. This wasn’t command. This was uncertainty. The CFO cleared his throat. “We can renegotiate”

“We’ve tried,”

someone cut in. “Sell off assets?”

“Already in motion.”

“Lay off more staff?”

A woman snapped, “There won’t be anyone left to run the place.”

Richard raised a hand. “Enough.”

His voice trembled, not loudly, but unmistakably. “I didn’t call this meeting for recycled ideas,”

he said. “I need solutions.”

Real ones. No one spoke. Eyes drifted to the table. To screens. To the empty chair that still hadn’t been reassigned. Then. A chair scraped back. A man stood. Mid-level executive. Quiet. Observant.

One of the ones who had survived by not speaking too much. “Sir,”

he said carefully, “may I speak?”

Richard looked at him. “Do you have a solution?”

Richard asked. The man nodded. “Yes.”

A ripple moved through the room. Richard straightened slightly. “Then go on.”

The man took a breath. His hands shook, but his voice held. “My solution is simple,”

he said. Simple. That word hurt more than complex ever could. “With all humility,”

the man continued, “I think you should invite Ethan Blackwood.”

The room froze. No coughs. No whispers. Just stillness. “It’s time,”

the man said, pushing on. “We need to hear from that young man.”

Richard’s jaw tightened. The man didn’t stop. “I believe,”

he said softly, “that God sent him here because of a time like this.”

A few people inhaled sharply. No one laughed. No one argued. Because deep down, too many of them believed it. Richard said nothing. He looked around the table, at faces worn thin by fear, at eyes that no longer looked to him for certainty.

The silence stretched. Seconds passed. Then minutes. Finally, Richard turned. He didn’t shout. He didn’t argue. He didn’t fire anyone. He simply walked out. The door closed behind him without a sound.

No one moved. “Did… did we just cross a line?” someone whispered.

The CFO leaned back slowly. “I think that line crossed us a long time ago.”

The man who had spoken sank back into his chair, heart pounding. “I thought he’d explode,” someone said. “He didn’t,”

another replied. “That’s worse.”

They sat there, leaderless, suspended between collapse and confession. The empty chair felt heavier than ever. Richard Hale walked down the hallway alone. No assistants. No entourage. No authority echoing behind him.

His footsteps sounded too loud. Every office he passed felt like an accusation. He reached his office and closed the door. Then locked it. He stood there for a long moment, staring at the wood grain like it might offer answers.

Eight months. He moved to his desk and sat heavily. His hands trembled. “God sent him,”

he muttered bitterly. He laughed once, short, hollow.

“God doesn’t send arrogant boys,” he said to the empty room.

But his mind betrayed him. A younger voice echoed in memory. You have six months. Nine if suppliers don’t panic. Richard rubbed his face. “Shut up,”

he whispered, to the memory, to the doubt, to the truth. His phone buzzed. He didn’t look at it. Another buzz. Then another. Finally, he flipped the phone over. Supplier Withdrawal Notice.

His breath caught. Then another message. Contributor Contract Review – Urgent. His throat tightened. Eight months was optimistic. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. For the first time in years, no plan formed.

No denial followed. Just a name. Ethan Blackwood. Richard closed his eyes. Across the city, Ethan stood in a quiet conference room, sleeves rolled up, marker in hand. “Again,”

a colleague said, frustrated. “They’re burning cash.”

“Yes,”

Ethan replied calmly. “You warned them. You gave them steps. You even called.”

“Yes.”

“So why do you still sound… patient?”

Ethan capped the marker. “Because this is the stage where pride exhausts itself.”

“And then?”

“And then,”

Ethan said, “silence.”

His phone buzzed on the table. Once. Twice. He ignored it. A third time. He glanced at the screen. Unknown Number.

He didn’t answer. The phone stopped vibrating. Minutes passed. Then it buzzed again. Same number. Ethan picked it up, but didn’t speak. On the other end, breathing. Slow. Heavy. Finally, a voice. “…Ethan.”

Ethan said nothing. “We had a meeting today,”

Richard Hale said quietly. Ethan listened. “They said your name,”

Richard continued. “Not once. Not twice.”

Still silence. Richard swallowed. “They said… they said we need to hear you.”

Ethan closed his eyes, not in triumph, not in anger. In control. “And?”

Ethan asked calmly. Richard hesitated. Eight months. Pride. Collapse. “…I’m listening,”

Richard said. The words tasted like defeat. Ethan opened his eyes. “Good,”

he replied. “Because time is something you no longer have.”

The call ended. Ethan set the phone down gently. Behind him, the city glowed, indifferent, unforgiving. The silence had finally done its work. And somewhere far below,

a man who once ruled a boardroom sat alone, learning the cost of not listening when the answer first spoke.