The Heiress's Comeback-Chapter 295: [ Volume 1] Chaper - your choice

But Esme didn’t flinch. She calmly observed the broken pen drive beneath the director’s heel, her gaze icy and unbothered. Slowly, she reached into her pocket, her fingers brushing against something cold and hard. She pulled out another pen drive and held it up, letting the light catch its sleek surface.

"Oh, you want to break the pen drive?" she said with a gleam in her eyes, her voice smooth like honey but carrying a dangerous undertone. "Here, break it. Go on." She tossed the new pen drive onto the table.

Then, to their growing horror, she reached into her pocket again, pulling out another, then another, and another. She tossed them one by one at the directors, each one landing in front of them with a soft click.

"Break as much as you want," she said, her voice filled with cold amusement. "I have over a hundred copies of it."

The directors’ eyes widened in disbelief. They had underestimated her, thinking that they could intimidate her, that they could destroy the evidence. But Esme had outplayed them at every turn. She wasn’t just prepared for this moment—she had anticipated it, planned for it.

They had no idea what they were dealing with.

Esme had always been calculated, precise, and, above all, patient. For years, she tolerated the directors—allowed them to keep their seats at the table despite their ineptitude. Not because they deserved it, but because they were the remnants of her mother’s legacy. They were tied to the company like old roots, and uprooting them back then could have destabilized everything her family had built.

But those days of restraint were over.

Her gaze swept across the room, taking in the faces of the directors—some nervous, others defiant, all of them weighing their options. Finally, one of the older directors, a woman with steely gray hair and sharp features, broke the silence.

"Esme," she began, her tone measured but betraying a slight tremor. "Perhaps you’re forgetting something. If this gets out, it won’t just ruin us—it will tarnish your reputation too. Do you really want to risk that?"

Her lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. "Tarnish my reputation?" she repeated softly, her voice a whisper of mockery. "You think I’m afraid of a little dirt?"

The director stiffened but pressed on. "You have to understand. The public might not side with you. They might see this as—"

"As what?" Esme cut him off, leaning forward abruptly. Her eyes gleamed like polished steel, her calm facade peeling back to reveal the fire underneath. "As me doing what you couldn’t? Cleaning up this mess you’ve been sitting on for years?"

The room seemed to shrink as her voice grew colder, sharper. "Do you really think I care about public opinion? Let me spell it out for you—I don’t. If I cared about my reputation, I wouldn’t have dragged your skeletons out into the light. I wouldn’t be sitting here, ready to burn this whole facade down if it means rebuilding it right."

A younger director attempted to interject, but Esme silenced him with a single, raised hand. Her gaze swept over the table, her expression unreadable but heavy with command.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" she asked, her voice almost conversational. "I see fear. I see desperation. And most importantly, I see weakness. You’ve spent years hiding behind your titles, behind your so-called experience, thinking that makes you untouchable. But here’s the thing—"

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper that made the directors instinctively lean in.

"I’m not here to play nice. I’m here to clean house."

Her words hit like a sledgehammer. The directors shifted uncomfortably, their confidence draining away as her sharp gaze locked onto each of them in turn.

One director, desperate to salvage some semblance of control, scoffed and muttered, "Your arrogance will be your downfall."

Esme’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Arrogance? No," she said, her tone silky smooth but razor-sharp. "This isn’t arrogance. This is me knowing exactly what I’m capable of. And you should, too."

The tension in the boardroom was thick enough to slice. The directors sat rigid in their chairs, their faces drained of color as if someone had pulled the rug out from under their carefully constructed world. Esme stood by the head of the table, exuding an air of effortless dominance, her expression a perfect blend of smugness and malice.

"Well," she said, her tone lilting as though she were about to suggest an afternoon tea. She rose from her chair, her every movement deliberate, and began to circle the table. "We’ve been together for so many years, haven’t we? Like one big, dysfunctional family."

The directors exchanged uneasy glances, their heads nodding in agreement, desperate for some sign of reprieve. One of them even mustered a nervous laugh. "Yes, Esme. We’re family. Surely, we can resolve this amicably."

Esme stopped in her tracks, resting her hands lightly on the back of one director’s chair. She leaned down, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. "Exactly. And because we’re family, I’m feeling rather... charitable."

Their collective sigh of relief was almost audible.

"I’m willing to destroy all the evidence," Esme continued, her tone casual, as if she were discussing the weather. "Erase every incriminating file, wipe the slate clean."

The directors visibly relaxed. It was too good to be true, but they clung to the hope that Esme was bluffing.

"But," she added, her voice dropping an octave, "there’s a small condition."

She raised her hand, holding up three fingers.

The directors stared at her, puzzled. One of them finally broke the silence. "What... what does that mean?"

"Three percent," Esme said, her smile widening.

The room erupted.

"Three percent of our shares?!" one director sputtered, his face turning a deep shade of red. "Are you out of your mind?"

Esme tilted her head, feigning confusion. "Out of my mind? No, I don’t think so. It seems quite reasonable to me."