Our weekly chess game with Albert had become my sanctuary. Wednesdays, amidst the chaos Marcus created, were a quiet island of strategic thought and calm conversation. Today, however, felt different. Albert was unusually pensive, his moves deliberate, his gaze often drifting to me.
He checkmated me in a swift, elegant sequence, as he often did. “A queen’s sacrifice for a king’s safety,” he mused, looking at the brass chess queen resting on the board.
“You always surprise me, Albert,” I said, a small smile playing on my lips.
He returned my smile, then something in his eyes shifted. “Nia, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the main atrium? I believe some of our colleagues are gathering for lunch.”
I felt a prickle of unease, but I nodded. Albert rarely left his suite during lunch.
We walked slowly, his arm linked lightly through mine, his cane tapping a gentle rhythm. As we approached the atrium, I saw what he meant. Fifty or so employees, including several board members and Marcus, were milling around, plates in hand, chatting.
A hush fell over the room as Albert and I entered. All conversations ceased. Every eye turned to us. Marcus stood near the large buffet table, a fork halfway to his mouth, his expression turning from surprise to a sneer.
Albert led me to the center of the atrium. He squeezed my hand gently, then to my utter shock, he slowly, with a great deal of effort, sank to one knee.
He was 89 years old. It was a Herculean effort. He looked up at me, his eyes shining.
“Nia Gaines,” he said, his voice carrying clearly through the silent atrium. “You are a woman of remarkable strength, integrity, and grace. You carry burdens with a dignity I deeply admire.”
I could feel a hundred eyes on me, burning into my skin. My face felt hot. Marcus looked apoplectic, his jaw hanging open.
“Will you do me the immense honor,” Albert continued, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a small, velvet box, “of becoming my wife?”
He opened the box. Inside, nestled on white satin, was a modest, antique silver ring with a single, clear diamond. It was understated, but beautiful.
A collective gasp swept through the atrium, a wave of stunned disbelief. Whispers erupted, quickly followed by outright murmurs.
“His wife?”
“She’s 38, he’s almost 90!”
Marcus’s face was purple. He slammed his fork down on his plate, the clang echoing sharply in the suddenly noisy room.
Albert, still on one knee, leaned in close, his voice a barely audible whisper for my ears only.
“Nia,” he breathed, “under Section 14 of the 1920 founding charter of Holloway Heritage & Asset Management Corp, a founder’s spouse gains irrevocable veto authority over corporate audits.”
My mind reeled. Veto authority. Unchallengeable access to the books. The gaslighting, the stolen files, the pawn receipt, David’s death… it all crashed into me.
This wasn’t about love. It was about power. It was about justice.
Albert’s eyes held mine, full of an urgent, quiet plea.
“Say yes, Nia,” he whispered. “Please.”
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