Husband Took His Mistress to a Business Meeting — But the New CEO Walked In…
He clicked the file open. The title slide, Innovate Dynamics: Conquering New Frontiers, created by Tiffany, flashed onto the main screen. It felt like a joke. He was the one who had been conquered.
“Please,” Catherine said, gesturing to the screen. “Dazzle us.”
Her voice was laced with an irony so cold, so sharp, it could have cut diamonds. And as Marcus Thorne opened his mouth to speak, he knew he wasn’t just fighting for a promotion anymore. He was fighting for the very last vestiges of his professional life in front of the woman whose life he had so thoroughly and foolishly underestimated.
The unveiling was complete. The dissection was about to begin.
Marcus began to speak, his voice a strained, hollow version of its usual confident boom. He tried to fall back on the familiar cadence of his pitch, the practiced words and compelling narrative he and Tiffany had rehearsed until it was second nature. But the words felt foreign in his mouth, the concepts flimsy and transparent.
Every claim of projected growth and synergistic opportunity sounded like a desperate lie under Catherine’s impassive gaze. She let him talk for exactly seven minutes. He was just hitting his stride on the market penetration strategy for Brazil when her voice cut through his presentation like a surgeon’s scalpel.
“Mr. Thorne, a question.”
He stopped mid-sentence.
“Yes, Madame CEO?”
Catherine swiped a finger across her tablet, and the main screen behind her instantly changed. His carefully crafted slide was replaced by a dizzying array of spreadsheets and market analysis reports.
“Your entire projection for the Brazilian market is predicated on a 15% annual growth in the consumer electronics sector with a primary focus on the affluent urban demographic. Is that correct?”
“Ah, yes. Our data indicates…”
“Whose data?” she interrupted, her tone clinical. “Because my data, compiled from three independent global analytics firms, indicates that the sector’s growth has stagnated at 4% for the last 18 months, with a projected ceiling of 5% for the next three years due to recent tariff implementations. Furthermore, the most significant growth is not in the affluent urban sector, which is already saturated, but in the emerging middle class in secondary cities—a demographic your plan completely ignores.”
A murmur went through the Vanguard executives. They were looking at the data on the screen, then back at Marcus, their expressions ranging from disappointment to disdain.
“Moreover,” Catherine continued, relentless, “your proposed logistics and distribution partner, a company called Logistica Sul, is currently under federal investigation for bribery and is on the verge of bankruptcy. Did your due diligence not uncover this?”
Marcus froze. That was a detail Tiffany was supposed to have vetted. He shot a panicked look in her direction. Tiffany looked as if she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. Her face was ashen. She was shrinking into her chair, trying to become invisible.
“I… we were assured of their stability,” Marcus stammered, the excuse sounding pathetic even to his own ears.
“You were assured?” Catherine’s eyebrow arched slightly. “Vanguard does not operate on assurances, Mr. Thorne. It operates on verifiable facts. Your marketing budget proposal of $50 million for the first year is not only inflated, it’s aimed at the wrong people in the wrong places, using a potentially criminal partner. Other than that, it’s a stellar plan.”
The sarcasm was devastating. A few of the Vanguard board members couldn’t suppress faint, cruel smiles. David Chen stared fixedly at the tabletop, refusing to look at Marcus, granting him the small mercy of not witnessing his complete and utter evisceration.
Catherine wasn’t finished. She systematically, and without a shred of emotion, dismantled his entire presentation. She questioned his advertising spend, pointing out that his media buy plan was based on three-year-old viewership data. She shredded his personnel plan, noting that he had budgeted for a massive new office in São Paulo without once considering a more cost-effective remote workforce—a model Vanguard had perfected.
With each point she made, she wasn’t just destroying his professional credibility; she was annihilating the central myth of their marriage. He was the brilliant businessman, the titan of industry. She was the domestic manager. But in this room, it was clear who possessed the superior intellect, the sharper instincts, and the more rigorous work ethic.
He had been playing checkers while she was mastering multidimensional chess. Finally, she turned her attention to the projections.
“Ms. Hayes,” she said, her voice making Tiffany jump in her seat. “I see you co-authored this report.”
Tiffany swallowed hard, her voice a tiny squeak.
“Yes, Madame CEO.”
“These sales projections,” Catherine said, circling a number on the screen with a digital red pen. “A 400% increase in market share in two years. What model did you use to arrive at this figure?”
“It… it was a proprietary algorithm based on… on synergistic market capture,” Tiffany managed, reciting a meaningless buzzword they had concocted to sound impressive.
Catherine’s expression remained unchanged.
“A proprietary algorithm, I see. Can you show it to me? Or is the formula as fictional as the growth it predicts?”
Tiffany’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. She was completely and totally out of her depth. She was a junior analyst who had been so dazzled by her affair with a senior VP that she’d let her work get sloppy, assuming his authority would shield her from scrutiny.
She had never imagined coming under the microscope of a CEO who actually read the fine print. The illusion was shattered. Marcus wasn’t a god. He was a fraud. And she had tied her career, her reputation, to him.
The promises of a directorship and a future together now seemed like a sick joke. She felt used, not for her body, but for her complicity. She had been the eager, ambitious fool who had done his sloppy homework for him.
Catherine turned her cold gaze back to Marcus.
“Your strategy, Mr. Thorne, is not just flawed. It’s lazy. It’s a work of profound arrogance, built on outdated assumptions and a shocking lack of diligence. It’s the kind of work I would expect from a company that is failing, which I suppose is why I was able to acquire it at such a favorable price.”
She let the final insult land, and the silence in the room was absolute. Richard Sterling looked pale, realizing the company he had led for twenty years was being branded as a sinking ship.
Catherine closed her tablet. The screen behind her went blank. The execution was over.
“That will be all for the group presentation. The Vanguard team and I will now break for a strategy session. Mr. Sterling, you’re welcome to join us. Mr. Chen, I’d like you to stay as well; I have some questions about Innovate’s operational efficiencies.”
She stood, a clear dismissal.
“Mr. Thorne? Ms. Hayes? You are excused.”
The words hung in the air. Excused. Dismissed like schoolchildren. Every other executive from Innovate was being asked to stay, to consult, to be a part of the future. But not him. Not the great VP of Marketing.
Numbly, Marcus closed his laptop. He couldn’t bring himself to look at anyone. He could feel the weight of their judgment, their pity, their contempt. He stood on shaky legs.
Tiffany scrambled to gather her things, her hands trembling so badly she dropped her pen, which rolled under the massive table. She didn’t dare retrieve it. She just wanted to escape.
As Marcus walked towards the door, his entire professional life in ruins, Catherine’s voice stopped him one last time. It was softer now, but no less commanding.
“Actually, Mr. Thorne… a word. In my office. Now.”
Tiffany fled the room without a backward glance. The heavy glass doors hissed shut behind her, leaving Marcus alone with his wife, his new boss, and the shattered fragments of his once-perfect life.
Catherine’s private office was adjacent to the boardroom. It was even more breathtaking: a corner suite with two walls of glass that made it feel as though you were floating above Chicago. The decor was minimalist and tasteful—a large oak desk, a few carefully chosen pieces of modern art, and shelves lined not with awards but with books on economics, philosophy, and engineering.
It was the office of a thinker, a builder.
Marcus walked in like a man condemned, his footsteps silent on the plush gray carpet. Catherine walked past him to stand before the window, her back to him, looking down at the city. The power dynamic was absolute. She didn’t offer him a seat.
