Board meetings are usually dull. Numbers. Egos. Men who think volume equals authority.

Then I notice the way the room’s energy shifts.

Lia’s moving beside the table, handing out documents, efficient and focused — doing her job — and I catch it instantly: the looks. Too long. Too bold. A couple of idiots whispering like they’ve forgotten where they are. Edwards and Co., not some back-alley bar.

One of them snickers. Says something about work done.

My jaw tightens.

I don’t look at her at first, but I see the way her shoulders stiffen, the way she breathes through it like she’s used to swallowing rage. That pisses me off more than the comments. No one in my building should have to do that.

Then someone puts a hand on her.

The sound of glass shattering cuts through the room before anyone even registers what happened.

The tumbler’s in pieces in my hand, blood seeping into my palm, but I don’t feel it. I’m already standing, chair scraping back, eyes locked on the man like I’m deciding whether he’s worth the paperwork.

Silence drops. Hard.

“If you’re here to ogle my lawyer,” I say coolly, every word deliberate, “or harass my employee, you’re free to leave.”

I let my gaze sweep the room — slow, icy, final.

“I don’t allow objectifying in my boardroom.”

No raised voice. No theatrics. I don’t need them. The message lands anyway. Men look away. Someone clears their throat. The guilty one shrinks back like he’s suddenly remembered who signs his cheques.

Only then do I glance at Lia.

She’s furious. Composed. Standing her ground.

Good.

I set the broken glass down, unfazed by the blood, and straighten my cuff like nothing happened.

“Shall we continue,” I say calmly, “or does anyone else need to be reminded where they are?”

No one speaks.

And they won’t make that mistake again.