“You can’t fire me!” Franklin roared, his veins bulging along his neck. “I built that operational pipeline! I spent twenty years in those offices!”
“I’m not firing you,” Maris said softly.
Franklin blinked, a fleeting spark of hope or confusion flickering across his eyes.
“I’m retiring your division,” she continued effortlessly. “Your position no longer exists. Your severance package has been calculated according to standard company policy—no bonuses, no executive payouts. Just what the law requires.”
She turned toward her mother, who was standing by the porch rail, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.
“Mom,” Maris said gently, her voice softening just a fraction. “Your car is parked around the corner. If you want to stay here in this house that he bought with money he never let you touch, you can. But if you want to leave, the keys to the Jaguar are on the table. The pink slip is in your name.”
