Chapter 8: "Hand Over Black Veil"
The elevator ride up was quiet, but it wasn't the kind of silence you could relax in.
Justin stood near the back, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, while Selena leaned slightly against the mirrored wall, checking her phone like nothing in the world could shake her.
The man who had greeted them, tall and composed with a businessman's practiced smile, kept sneaking glances at Justin, maybe trying to size him up. Or maybe he was just nervous.
Either way, Justin wasn't giving anything away, his face unreadable.
When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, Justin stepped out first, Selena just a step behind. The man gestured toward the hallway ahead, his voice a little too eager.
"This way, Mr. Black. The boardroom is ready."
The hall was all sharp lines and glass, everything modern and dripping with wealth, but Justin wasn't impressed. He had grown up around this kind of luxury—hell, it was basically his backyard. What mattered now wasn't the building but the people waiting inside.
When the man pushed open the heavy boardroom doors, Justin's eyes swept the room immediately. Twelve people sat around the long, polished table, their faces turning toward him like he was the main act they'd been waiting for.
And boy, was it a sight.
Most of them didn't even bother hiding their true colors. Greed practically dripped off one guy sitting near the middle, his fingers tapping impatiently against the table. A woman in a sharp red suit, probably pushing fifty, had a smile so fake it looked like it might crack.
Two men whispered something to each other and then laughed, the kind of laugh that made it clear they thought this was all some kind of joke.
But then there were the exceptions.
Mr. Clarkson, an older man with kind eyes and a solid handshake, gave Justin a small nod. His presence felt steady, like he was one of the few people here who actually had Justin's back. Beside him, Mrs. Simmons, with her warm smile and air of quiet confidence, offered a reassuring glance.
He'd last seen them yesterday at the burial, their support genuine even in the midst of all that chaos.
"Take a seat," the man who had led them said, gesturing toward the head of the table.
Justin walked over, every step measured, and sank into the chair at the head like he was born for it. Selena took the seat to his right, her expression sharp and unreadable.
For a second, no one said anything. The tension was thick enough to choke on, but Justin didn't flinch.
"So," he finally said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "Let's get to it. I assume you all have something to say?"
The room erupted into a mess of voices. Questions, complaints, fake compliments—it all came at him at once, a chaotic symphony of corporate bullshit.
Justin leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the table, and let them talk. He wasn't here to jump in right away. He was here to see who showed their hand first.
Selena leaned over slightly, her voice low and amused. "And here I thought this was gonna be boring."
Justin smirked but didn't take his eyes off the table. "Boring? Nah. This is just the warm-up."
Justin cleared his throat, the sound sharp and deliberate, cutting through the chaos like a whip.
The boardroom went silent, eyes locking on him. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished table, fingers loosely clasped. The weight of the moment didn't faze him—or at least, he didn't let it show.
"Alright," he said, his voice calm but carrying an edge. "Let's hear it. What's the problem?"
The silence was thick, but not for long.
One of the older members, a man with thinning hair and a suit that looked like it hadn't been tailored since the early 2000s, cleared his throat. "With all due respect, Mr. Black, we're facing... complications. Some of our long-standing clients have decided to withdraw their contracts."
Justin raised a brow. "Why?"
The man adjusted his glasses, clearly uncomfortable. "Confidence, or rather, the lack of it. They're unsure about the future of the agency under, uh..." He hesitated, his words hanging. "An 18-year-old."
Another member, a woman with sharp features and an even sharper tone, jumped in. "And it's not just them. The media's already taken notice. This morning, The Daily Spotlight published an article questioning whether Black Veil Agency could survive under, and I quote, 'a pampered little kid handed the empire like it was his birthday present.'"
Justine Black sat at the head of the table, his face carefully neutral despite the storm brewing inside him. The twelve board members, all seasoned and sharp-eyed, sat in a semi-circle, their expressions ranging from wary to outright hostile.
"Let's look at this," announces the same silver-haired woman who seemed to take pleasure in her role as the meeting's antagonist. Her voice is clipped, professional, but there's an edge to it—like she's already written him off. "We've compiled a summary of the agency's current... challenges. Mr. Black, I am sorry but I hope you're ready for the reality check."
The projector whirs to life as the lights dim, casting a cold blue glow across the boardroom. The first slide clicks onto the screen—a headline from this morning's news.
"Black Veil Agency: Can an 18-Year-Old Heir Save It or Sink It?"
Justine's stomach tightened. The article's subheading doesn't pull any punches either, questioning his capability and calling his inheritance "a reckless gamble."
The projector flickered to life again, the room dimming as a deafening silence settled over the boardroom. The twelve board members leaned forward, their faces predatory, their eyes glinting with something between pity and disdain.
Justine Black, the 18-year-old heir to the Black Veil Agency, sat at the head of the table, his face calm, but his stomach was still churning like a storm. He knew where this was going... Stepping down... That's what the board members were cooking!
Will he though?