The room is louder than Selah expects.
Not chaotic. Just alive. Chairs shifting. Low conversations folding into one another. Camera shutters. The faint electronic whine of a microphone being tested. And tested again.
She stands just off to the side, hands folded loosely in front of her.
Andrew Whitberg stands near the podium, posture rigid, expression neutral. The kind of formal presence that signals what comes next matters.
Vincent is a few feet away, speaking quietly with Dominique. From a distance, he looks composed. Commanding.
The version of himself the public expects.
Selah knows better.
Employees fill the room in uneven rows. Deborah stands near the aisle, arms folded, posture alert, eyes sharp. Matt is a few seats away, hands clasped, practicing the kind of stillness that comes from knowing you're being watched.
Bobby lingers near the back wall, scanning the room with wide-eyed energy while counting faces, clocking reactions, feeling the weight of the moment settle in his chest.
Local media cluster near the front. Cameras ready. Pens poised.
Three days have passed since the vote. Not long enough for anything to feel settled.
Long enough for everyone to know this moment matters.
Andrew steps forward.
His voice is measured, precise. The kind of tone that leaves no room for interpretation.
"Vincent Tomlinson founded Landmark Industries in 2008. Under his leadership, the company has grown from a startup operation to a national enterprise with over four hundred employees across three locations.
Mr. Tomlinson holds a degree in Business Administration from the University of Pennsylvania and has served on the boards of three industry organizations. He is here to address recent developments regarding employee representation."
He pauses. No inflection. No warmth. Just facts arranged in order.
"Please welcome Vincent Tomlinson."
Andrew steps back.
Vincent moves forward smoothly, as if the transition was choreographed. He adjusts the microphone once. Looks out at the room.
Takes its temperature.
"When we started Landmark," he begins, voice steady, familiar, controlled, "there were twelve of us. Two borrowed offices. One server that overheated if you looked at it wrong."
A ripple of soft laughter moves through the room.
"We didn't grow because we got lucky," Vincent continues. "And we didn't grow because of one person."
He gestures open-palmed toward leadership. Toward Selah.
"We grew because people showed up every day and made something worth building. And because of you."
The line lands. A few people clap. Then a few more. The sound gathers, then stops short of becoming anything louder.
Vincent lets the silence settle.
Selah watches him closely. Beneath the cadence, she catches tension.
If there are cracks, he doesn't show them.
Vincent shifts his weight. "If you've been reading the headlines," he says, "you might think today marks a turning point for Landmark. And not a good one."
A few heads turn. A camera lens adjusts.
"That this is the beginning of instability. Or loss of control." A pause. "It isn't."
The word lands firm. Measured.
"What it is," Vincent continues, "is a recognition of reality. Our employees have chosen representation through the Associated Labor Federation."
He doesn't rush past the name.
"And I want to be clear about something," he adds. "This doesn't signal decline. It signals evolution."
Selah's jaw tightens.
"This new partnership with ALF," Vincent says, "means stronger alignment, clearer communication, and a brighter future for Landmark."
The applause is uncertain. Polite. Scattered.
Deborah doesn't move. Matt exhales slowly.
Selah hears Jude's voice in the phrasing. Not quoted, not copied.
Echoed.
"I've spoken with one of the organizers from the Associated Labor Federation," Vincent continues.
That gets attention.
"Enough to be confident about this much," he says. "The road ahead isn't leading us toward a battlefield."
Cameras adjust. "It's leading us toward the greatest success Landmark has ever experienced."
The applause is louder now. Not because people fully believe it. Because they want to.
Matt nods once, almost reflexively.
Deborah does not.
"We look forward to our first formal meetings once representation has been established," Vincent says, hands resting lightly on the podium, "so we can get about the business of collaboration."
He scans the room once more. "And moving forward together."
A nod.
"Thank you."
He steps away. Applause rises. Polite at first, then steadier. Not thunderous. Not nothing.
Vincent holds the room just long enough for it to feel real. Long enough for them to believe it.
What comes next… he hasn't decided yet.
Deborah leans toward Matt, voice low. "Did we just hear that?"
Matt keeps his eyes forward. "Yeah," he says slowly. "We did."
Bobby shifts his weight, muttering under his breath: "Man… this feels like Game Seven of the Finals."
No one near him laughs.
As Vincent shakes hands with a reporter, his eyes find Selah across the room. She's composed. Professional. Exactly where she should be. He holds the look just long enough for something to shift behind his eyes.
Dominique appears at his side.
She waits until the cameras shift just enough, then extends her tablet. "Mr. Tomlinson," she says quietly. "There's something you should know about Mr. McPhearson and Ms. Fierce."
Vincent takes the tablet. A freeze frame fills the screen. Unmistakable.
The lobby. Night. Jude. Selah. Her arms around him.
Vincent's expression doesn't change immediately.
His eyes move left to right, absorbing posture, distance, context.
He hands the tablet back.
"Thank you."
Dominique's eyes flick across the room.
A guard catches the look and gives a quick thumbs-up. Her expression tightens enough for him to get the message.
The guard's hand drops.
Her gaze shifts again. Bobby is already looking at her.
Their eyes meet. Neither looks away first.
"Damn," he mutters.
"Walk with me," Vincent says.
He doesn't lead her toward his office. They stop at a door she's passed a hundred times but never entered.
Vincent swipes a keycard. The lock beeps softly.
The security room is dim. Lit mostly by monitors. Dozens of feeds. Hallways. Entrances. Time stamps blinking in quiet rhythm.
Selah stops just inside. "What's this all about?"
Vincent doesn't answer. Instead, he taps a panel as one feed enlarges. It rewinds, then plays.
The lobby appears.
Jude. Selah. The hug.
Clear. Unmistakable.
Vincent pauses the footage mid-embrace. Only then does he turn.
"What's this all about?" he asks as he points to the image. "And when were you planning to tell me?"
"You talked to him," Selah says.
Vincent kills the screen. "Obviously, not before you did," he says. "And it doesn't look like you were just talking."
A tight exhale.
"I just stood in front of the entire company," he continues, "and told them we're going to work with these people." A gesture. "With him. And I didn't know you were already in bed with them."
Selah turns slowly.
"In bed?" Her voice tightens. "If I was trying to hide something, I think I could do better than hugging someone in the middle of the goddamn lobby."
Vincent turns away. "When I built this company," he says quietly, "I always knew what was happening. And now…"
A rough exhale. "Fuck…I barely know anything."
Vincent turns back. "I need to know if I can trust you. Or not."
Selah doesn't answer right away. She steps closer.
"Trust me?" she repeats. "You want to talk about trust?"
Selah's stare cuts past the CEO—to the man she already knows.
"I remember the nights we didn't go home," she says. "The calls at two in the morning. The ones you didn't want to take alone."
Her voice tightens. "I remember when this place wasn't yours yet."
Selah moves forward another step.
"When you built this company? I was there for all of it. The same sacrifices. The same impossible calls."
Her eyes lock onto his. "So don't stand there and act like I just showed up."
Vincent adjusts his collar and wipes his brow as Selah continues.
"You can question my policies. My decisions."
A brief pause.
"Hell, you can even question my choice in men."
Her voice drops.
"But you do not get to question my devotion to this company."
Vincent watches her. The next words come to him quietly.
"Can I trust you or not?"
Selah doesn't blink. "Fuck you, Vincent."
Her hand is on the door.
"Selah."
She turns, already tired. "What?"
Vincent doesn't look like he's controlling the room. He looks like a man trying to understand something he's already too late to stop.
His voice is lower now. Stripped.
"Do you love him?"
Selah doesn't answer. Her eyes flicker. Not toward him, but somewhere past him. Like the question landed somewhere she hasn't gone yet.
She exhales. Long. Unsteady.
For a moment, it looks like she might say something.
She doesn't.
She shakes her head once. Looks toward the ceiling. One hand lifts—palm up—then drops. Her other hand tightens on the door handle.
Then she leaves.
Vincent stands alone. He listens as the door clicks shut, then looks at the blank screen where the image was.
He shuts it off.