Page 113 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
YARA
The doors to CY8’s executive tower whisper open with the same silent grace they always have—slick, soundless, unobtrusive. But the moment I step through them, I know everything has changed.
Or maybe I have.
Same atrium. Same glass-and-steel elegance. Same curated flora that’s never known soil, only hydration chambers and light-spectrum algorithms. It’s all perfectly controlled. Pristine.
And yet... the air feels different. The weight in it. The watchfulness.
I walk across the marble floor like I own it.
Because now, again, I do.
My heels strike the tile in even, deliberate beats, and I don’t rush. Let them hear me coming. Let themfeelthe cadence of a woman returned not in disgrace, not in desperation—but in control.
I see the receptionist out of the corner of my eye—a young man with perfect cheekbones and the expression of someone who’s memorized a thousand polite greetings. He stands when he sees me, nearly knocking over his tablet.
“Ms. Greenfield—uh, Chairwoman Greenfield. Welcome back.”
I nod once, curt. “Has the board convened?”
“Already in the chamber. They—uh—they didn’t know if?—”
“They know now.” I walk past him, not stopping. “Have them briefed and ready. Full projections. I want last quarter compared to pre-Tidball metrics. All of it. I’m not here for sentiment.”
“Yes, Chairwoman.”
The elevator ride is too quiet.
My reflection in the mirrored panel opposite me is clinical, cold. Hair slicked back. Suit a shade darker than black, structured for authority. No jewelry. No softness. Just angles and fire and the memory of blood under my nails.
The doors open, and the boardroom stares.
Fifteen faces. Twelve of them familiar. Three new. All uncertain.
They rise as I enter, like the motion was instinctive, not commanded. It pleases me more than I’d like to admit.
“Don’t bother,” I say, walking to the head of the table. “We’re not doing the performance today.”
A few sit back down awkwardly. One clears his throat. Someone else fidgets with a stylus. They don’t know what to make of me now—and that’s exactly how I want it.
I place my datapad on the table, swipe open the projection feed, and let the numbers speak.
“This is where we were two quarters ago—before the ‘strategic acquisition’ that Tidball assured would stabilize our risk profile. And this,” I tap again, “is where we are now. Divested, disorganized, and hemorrhaging in six sectors.”
No one argues.
“The damage is recoverable, but only if we act without delay. Which means no votes. No half-measures. I’m reinstating the original board charter. I have the legal standing—and theauthority. Any objections can be directed to Legal. They already have my signature.”
A man on the left—Baren, formerly head of TechOps—raises a tentative hand. “Chairwoman, with respect, this is a dramatic restructuring. Some of these directives haven’t been enforced since your father’s era.”
“That’s the idea.”
He opens his mouth again. I level my gaze at him, and he thinks better of it.
I keep going.
Department by department. Project by project. Line items and reversals. Every decision signed off with surgical precision. Every initiative aimed at undoing the rot Tidball left behind.
