After the meeting, after the silence settled, I found myself sitting alone in my new office.
Well—his old office.
Now mine.
I leaned back in the chair, looking around at the heavy furniture, the dark wood walls, the stiff, expensive leather couch no one ever sat on. Everything in this room was cold. Controlled. Like him.
My father didn't build this company.
But he sure acted like he did.
Navarro started with my grandfather—Daniel Navarro. A quiet, steady man who believed in hard work, good people, and building something that lasted. I was too young to remember him well, but I still remember the smell of his cologne and the way he used to keep butterscotch candies in his pocket just for me.
He made people feel safe. He was the kind of man you could trust.
But then he died suddenly—stroke, they said. He was healthy one day and gone the next.
I was seven.
That's when everything changed.
My father—Robert Navarro—wasn't supposed to run the company. Not really. He wasn't the choice anyone expected. He'd been out of the picture for years. He and my mom split when I was five. One day he left for a "business trip" and just never came back.
No phone calls. No birthdays. No visits.
He sent money, but never showed his face.
Mom tried to explain it. "Your dad is busy, sweetie. Some people aren't made to stay."
But I never understood.
Not until I got older.
When my grandfather died, my father came back like nothing had happened. Walked into the funeral like a star. Suit perfect. Hair slicked back. Words smooth.
People looked at him with surprise.
He looked back at them like he owned the world.
He didn't waste time. He talked about "legacy," about "preserving the Navarro name." He said he was ready to lead. That he had "new ideas" and "vision."
Some people doubted him.
But he knew how to talk.
He told the board what they wanted to hear—about growth, money, expansion. He promised results. And for a while, he delivered.
He cut corners. Made deals. Quiet deals.
The company grew fast. Faster than it should have.
And people? People fell in line.
Not because they trusted him.
But because they feared him.
My father didn't lead like my grandfather. He didn't believe in trust. He believed in control.
He promoted the ones who obeyed without question.
He fired the ones who asked too many.
And the ones who stayed? The ones who got ahead?
They owed him.
Some because he gave them power.
Some because he held their secrets.
And some—like Ellis, like a few others—were just afraid to lose what they had.
That was the loyalty he built.
Not love.
Not respect.
Just fear.
And in the middle of all that, he never once looked back at me.
---
I remember the first time I visited the office after he took over. I was nine. My mom brought me in because it was "Bring Your Child to Work Day," and she thought maybe, just maybe, my father would want to see me.
He barely looked up from his desk.
Didn't ask how school was. Didn't ask if I missed him.
Just said, "Sit still. Don't touch anything."
I remember how cold his voice was.
That was the last time I came to visit.
Years passed. I grew up watching from the outside. Watching the company change. Watching him grow more powerful—and more distant.
He didn't call on my birthdays. Didn't come to my graduation.
But then, when I turned twenty-one, I got a letter. Not from him. From his lawyer.
It said that when I was ready, I could take my seat on the board. That my name was still on the trust.
No message from my father.
No welcome back.
Just a signature at the bottom, cold as ice: Robert Navarro.
---
I didn't join right away. I wasn't sure I wanted to.
But something inside me—something stubborn—made me do it.
I stepped into those boardrooms, smiled through their fake welcomes, and watched from the sidelines.
I saw how my father controlled them.
I saw how people listened to him, even when they disagreed.
And I saw how no one dared to stand up to him.
I tried, once. I brought up a contract I found that didn't look legal. Something shady. Something wrong.
He shut me down in front of everyone.
Said I was "young." Said I "didn't understand the business." Said I should "learn to listen before I speak."
And no one—no one—backed me up.
After that, I kept quiet.
I stayed in the background. I smiled when I had to. I nodded when I was expected to.
But I watched. And I remembered.
---
And now?
Now he was gone.
Now everyone was looking at me.
Not the scared girl from the corner seat. Not the quiet daughter no one took seriously.
Now I was the one sitting at the top.
And I had to clean up everything he left behind.
---
There was a knock at the door.
It opened slowly.
Aidan stepped in.
"Thought you might be in here," he said.
I smiled faintly. "Couldn't resist sitting in his chair."
He walked in and closed the door behind him.
"How does it feel?"
"Strange," I said. "Heavy."
He sat across from me.
I looked at him for a long time. "You know, he left me when I was five. Just walked out."
Aidan nodded, quiet.
"He came back when my grandfather died. Just took everything over like it was owed to him. And people let him. They let him because he scared them. Or paid them. Or both."
"You don't have to be like him."
"I know," I said. "But I do have to be strong. Stronger than I ever thought I'd need to be."
"You already are."
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking slightly.
"I used to wonder what was wrong with me," I said. "Why he left. Why he didn't love me enough to stay."
Aidan leaned forward. "There was never anything wrong with you. He just didn't know how to be a father."
I let out a breath. "Now I have to fix everything he broke."
"Not alone," he said. "You're not alone anymore."
I met his eyes.
And I believed him.
---
That night, I stayed late at the office.
I walked the halls, lights dim, rooms quiet.
I paused by the old portraits in the main hall. My grandfather's photo hung at the start—warm eyes, soft smile.
And at the end? My father.
Sharp. Cold. Calculating.
Tomorrow, I would take his photo down.
Not to erase him.
But to stop letting him haunt these halls.
It was time for something new.
A company built on truth.
On strength.
On real loyalty.
And this time…
I would lead the way.