Andre's forehead was starting to sweat.
How the hell was he supposed to explain this?
The truth was embarrassingly simple—he'd padded his reports to squeeze out a little extra R&D funding, some of which conveniently turned into his weekend drinking money. But now every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on him, sharp and merciless. Nobody was going to believe a word he said.
He'd been doing this for years: pick a few fancy-sounding tech names that made everyone's eyes glaze over, drop them into the report, and call it innovation. None of the execs actually understood the technical details, and once the list was filed at year's end, the job was done.
He never imagined that Thea had already pored over Queen Consolidated's weapons catalog three separate times. The G-12 project had barely been mentioned in passing in his report, but she'd spotted it instantly. She'd even planned to tip off someone privately later—until he went and jumped into the fire himself.
Now he regretted it so much he could have turned green. Still clinging to a shred of hope, he stammered,
"P-probably a coincidence. Maybe the staff mixed up the files… or it's an upgraded model? I'll definitely look into it!"
Now you're scared, Thea thought coldly. Where's that smug grin from a minute ago?
No way was she letting him off that easily. She took a paper from her folder and waved it lightly.
"This is the performance report for the anti-G suit—downloaded straight from our internal network. May I take a look at your personal computer? According to company policy, all projects must have a preliminary plan filed before funding. If we compare your plan with this report's figures, we'll know immediately whether there's a discrepancy."
Andre nearly wanted to smash his head against the wall. How does she even know the process this well? Didn't she just start yesterday?
And his early drafts—he thought back—oh right, he'd copied them wholesale. His computer was a time bomb that could get him ten years in prison. The image of himself gripping iron bars, crooning through tears—
🎵 "Ten years later, we'll still be friends…" 🎵—
flashed through his mind. No way in hell was he letting them touch that machine.
But he had no legitimate excuse to refuse, either. Glancing desperately at Moira, he sent a silent plea for mercy. But Moira just smiled pleasantly, saying nothing.
Then the chorus began.
"Thea's right—we should check his computer!"
"Andre, you leech! I always knew something was off about you!"
"You'd better confess. My cousin's brother-in-law's neighbor works at the SCPD—I've already reported you!"
In seconds, the serious boardroom devolved into a marketplace brawl. Regardless of which faction they belonged to, everyone joined in denouncing Andre's corruption.
To be honest, nobody in the Queen family cared about the occasional bit of skimming. They were so rich that a few missing dollars didn't matter—everyone in the room, except the mother-daughter duo, had their own side businesses anyway. Even Walter, loyal and lovestruck, owned a few outside investment firms. But Andre? He'd done it stupidly. To get caught red-handed by a fifteen-year-old girl—he'd go down in company legend. The "geniuses" in the room felt humiliated by association. If word spread that they'd worked with him, no other firm would hire them. Someone had to be sacrificed to restore the group's collective IQ.
While the mob was tearing into him, Thea calmly touched her chin and smiled—then suddenly remembered she couldn't grow a beard anymore. That thought made her frown slightly. Looking toward Moira, she saw her mother's approving gaze. Moira was clearly waiting for her cue—this was Thea's moment to decide. Not wanting to make things too ugly on her first day, Thea gave a small nod, signaling she was satisfied.
Moira had been furious at first. She'd already warned everyone yesterday: the young girl was new—be polite, give her some face. She knew what her subordinates were like, and usually turned a blind eye as long as they didn't go too far. The Queen family's fortune was so vast that whether they lost a million here or there didn't matter. But Andre had crossed the line.
She'd been about to intervene to shield her daughter from an escalating fight—but Thea handled it effortlessly, even turning the situation around and exposing a major flaw with textbook precision. Could it be, Moira thought, that I've underestimated her all along?
Given only a day's worth of reading, Thea had used open data to corner a senior manager. Moira herself hadn't had that kind of sharpness at that age.
To back her daughter up—and to send a message—Moira ignored Andre's desperate glances for help. Only after Thea nodded did she finally speak, slow and calm:
"That will be all for today's meeting. You may all go."
She didn't mention any disciplinary action for Andre. There were two reasons. First, he'd been appointed by another shareholder; she couldn't dismiss him directly. Second—and far more importantly—Thea was Malcolm Merlyn's daughter. And Malcolm had a very specific philosophy: You take one of mine, I take your whole family. The man's fate was already sealed; no need for formalities.
Moira's instincts were spot-on.
Malcolm Merlyn, the shadow emperor of Star City, always had eyes everywhere. A single signal from him could summon an army. And with a third of Queen Consolidated's executives already bought or intimidated, he had access to the entire meeting's video feed.
He'd been pleased to see Thea enter the boardroom looking composed—pleased, and then astonished. Her poise, confidence, and cunning reminded him uncannily of his younger self—only, well, female. But in a world where queens and duchesses ruled empires, that hardly mattered.
When Moira gently brushed aside the issue instead of punishing the offender, Malcolm didn't fret. He'd already arranged for Mr. Andre to "move" into a soon-to-be-completed overpass pillar—a fine piece of construction: tall, sturdy, excellent load-bearing capacity, and with heavy foot traffic nearby. He wouldn't even charge rent. Andre would never feel lonely again.
As for Malcolm, watching his daughter's dazzling first day, he couldn't help but compare her to his son. The difference was painful.
Calls to Tommy went unanswered. Personal visits were ignored. Texts unread. The great master schemer, who could manipulate cities, now couldn't even reach his own boy. On the other hand, his daughter had already sprinted two hundred meters ahead while his son hadn't even reached the starting line.
For once, even Malcolm Merlyn didn't know what to do.