“Then we’ll vote. All those expressing confidence in Gerald Witford as CEO, raise your hands.”
Four hands went up. Gerald’s allies. People who owed their board seats to his recommendations.
“All those expressing no confidence.”
Seven hands rose.
Robert Hartley counted twice. Then he set down his pen.
“The motion carries seven to four with one abstension.” He turned to Gerald. “Mr. Witford. The board has voted no confidence. Per section 14.3 of our bylaws, you have 30 days to tender your resignation.”
Gerald said nothing. He stood—looked at me. Really looked at me.
For what might have been the first time in my life, I expected rage, hatred, threats.
What I saw was worse. Recognition. The understanding that he’d underestimated me so completely that he’d lost everything.
He walked out without a word.
“I know what some of you are thinking right now. Why didn’t she just fire him? Why give him the chance to keep his job? Because revenge isn’t justice. Because destroying someone doesn’t undo what they did to you. And because my grandmother didn’t raise me to be cruel, she raised me to be fair. If that resonates with you, hit like, hit subscribe, turn on notifications because the story isn’t over. Not even close. Now, back to what happened after that boardroom cleared.”
Gerald caught me in the private corridor outside the boardroom. Priscilla was with him. Someone must have called her during the recess. Her face was tear streaked, mascara bleeding down her cheeks.
“You.” Gerald’s voice was barely controlled. “You ungrateful scheming—”
“Gerald.” Priscilla put a hand on his arm. “Not here. Not here.”
“She just destroyed our family in front of 12 people.”
I stood my ground. “I didn’t destroy anything. I told the truth.”
“The truth?” Gerald laughed bitterly. “Your grandmother was manipulated. That lawyer, Ellis, he must have—”
“Grandma Eleanor wrote that will five months after you tried to strip her of power because she saw exactly who you are.” My voice didn’t waver. “You didn’t lose because I betrayed you. You lost because you betrayed her.”
Priscilla stepped forward. “Dulce, sweetheart, you have to understand. We were trying to protect you. You’ve always struggled. We didn’t want to put pressure—”
“You didn’t protect me. You erased me.” Twenty-eight years of silence crystallized into words. “Every Christmas dinner, every family photo, every conversation where you talked about Miranda’s achievements and pretended I didn’t exist. That wasn’t protection. That was abandonment.”
“That’s not fair,” she whispered.
“You’re right. It wasn’t fair.” I met my mother’s eyes. “I spent my whole life trying to prove I was worthy of this family. I’m done proving. The documents speak for themselves.”
Gerald grabbed my arm.
“This isn’t over. We’ll contest that will.”
Will. I pulled free. “You’ll lose. And you know it. Because Grandma Eleanor planned for every contingency, including this one.”
I walked toward the elevator. Behind me, I heard my mother’s voice.
“Dulce, wait.”
I didn’t wait. For the first time in my life, I didn’t need their permission to leave.
The elevator doors closed on my parents’ faces.
I leaned against the brush steel wall, finally allowing myself to breathe. The adrenaline that had carried me through the past 2 hours began to eb, leaving something unexpected in its wake. Not triumph, not satisfaction—grief.
I’d just severed 28 years of hoping things would change, of believing that if I was patient enough, quiet enough, good enough, my parents would eventually see me, love me the way they loved Miranda. That hope was dead now. I’d killed it myself.
The elevator descended 42 floors. By the time it reached the lobby, I’d wiped my eyes and straightened my borrowed blazer.
Jonathan Ellis was waiting by the security desk.
“That was…” He searched for the word. “Remarkable.”
“It was necessary.”
“Your grandmother would agree.”
He fell into step beside me as I walked toward the exit.
“What happens now?”
“Now I go home, sleep, try to figure out what my life looks like without the family I thought I had and the company. I don’t want to be CEO. I never did.”
We stopped at the revolving doors.
“I just want the company my grandmother built to be run by people who actually care about it, not people who see it as their personal inheritance.”
Ellis nodded slowly. “The board will want to meet with you, discuss transition plans, your role going forward.”
“I know, but not today.” I pushed through the door, felt the Manhattan sunlight hit my face. “Today, I just need to be Duly Witford, not a shareholder, not a victim, not a symbol.”
“And tomorrow,” I looked back at Witford Tower, 42 stories of glass and steel bearing my family’s name, “tomorrow I start building something new.”
May 19th, 2024. Gerald Witford signed his resignation letter at 4:00 p.m. I wasn’t there. I learned about it through an email from Robert Hartley.
“Miss Witford, your father has tendered his resignation effective June 15th, 2024. The board has appointed me as interim CEO while we conduct a search for permanent leadership. Additionally, the board has voted to offer you a formal position strategic adviser to the board. This role would allow you to participate in major decisions while you determine your long-term relationship with the company. Please let me know your thoughts.
“Regards, Robert Hartley.”
I read the email three times. Habit. And then forwarded it to Jonathan Ellis for review.
His response came within an hour. “Fair offer. No hidden strings. Congratulations, Dulce.”
That evening, an all staff email went out to the Witford Properties team.
“Effective June 15th, Gerald Witford will step down as CEO. Robert Hartley will serve as interim CEO. Additionally, the board welcomes Dulsey Witford as a strategic adviser in her capacity as majority shareholder. We thank Gerald for his years of service and wish him well in future endeavors.”
My phone buzzed with messages. Colleagues I’d worked beside for 2 years, people who’d never learned my name suddenly wanted to have coffee, to reconnect, to catch up.
I ignored most of them. But one message stood out from Patricia Morales, an executive assistant who’d started at the company in 1987, who’d worked directly with my grandmother.
“Duly, Eleanor used to talk about you constantly. She said you saw things others missed. I never understood what she meant until today. Welcome to the boardroom. She’d be so proud.”
I saved that message. Some validation doesn’t come from family. Sometimes that’s better.
One week later, the story went public. New York Business Journal, Witford Properties, shakeup. Founders’s granddaughter takes control after secret will surfaces. The article didn’t name me directly. Corporate privacy laws prevented that, but anyone in Manhattan real estate circles knew exactly who it was about.
