Power changes how people speak.
It strips away tone.
Removes arrogance.
Leaves only truth.
—
He came to see me that night.
Not through official channels.
Not as an executive.
As a man with nothing left.
—
He stood outside my office long after business hours, hands clasped tightly, suit rumpled, eyes hollow.
I didn't invite him in.
I let him wait.
Because waiting teaches humility.
—
When I finally opened the door, he flinched.
"I need to talk," he said quietly.
I stepped aside.
No welcome.
No warmth.
—
He didn't sit.
"I made mistakes," he said. "I trusted the wrong people."
I closed the door behind us.
"You trusted yourself," I corrected. "And you were wrong."
His jaw tightened.
"Please," he said. "This has gone too far."
Too far.
I almost laughed.
—
"You destroyed my name," I said calmly. "You watched while I fell. You signed the papers. You slept peacefully."
He swallowed.
"I didn't think you'd survive."
Honesty, at last.
—
He stepped closer.
"I'll testify," he said quickly. "I'll expose everything. Your sister. The others. I'll say it was all me if I have to."
I raised a hand.
"No."
He froze.
"No?" he whispered.
"I don't need your sacrifice," I said softly. "I need your truth."
Tears welled in his eyes.
Real ones.
"Then what do you want?" he asked.
I looked at him—really looked.
At the man who once stood above me.
"You'll live," I said. "Without power. Without respect. Without me."
That hurt more than prison ever could.
—
He fell to his knees.
Actually knelt.
"I loved you," he said.
I believed him.
And it changed nothing.
"Love without loyalty is just hunger," I replied.
—
Security knocked gently.
I didn't call them.
But the building remembered who he was now.
—
As he was led away, he turned back.
"I would've done anything for you."
I met his gaze.
"You already did," I said. "And it cost you everything."
—
When the door closed, I didn't cry.
I breathed.
Deeply.
Freely.
—