41 employees.
First round.
Lower-level staff.
Engineers.
Analysts.
Administrative assistants.
People who had nothing to do with Richard's boardroom.
People who had never heard the name Harold Moore.
People who showed up to work one Monday morning and found security guards waiting with cardboard boxes and separation agreements.
Richard addressed the remaining staff in a company-wide meeting.
He stood at the front of the room in a suit that cost more than most of their monthly salaries and told them that "temporary adjustments were necessary due to shifting market conditions."
Nobody believed him.
But nobody said so.
Then the clients started leaving.
First, Grayson Logistics.
A 15-year partnership.
Their CEO called Douglas, not Richard.
Said they had concerns about organizational stability.
Douglas tried to explain.
The CEO said, "We've already signed with someone else."
Then Atlantic Shore Development.
Then Crestfield Manufacturing.
Three of their biggest accounts gone in the same month.
Combined revenue loss over $90 million a year.
Within 90 days of Harold Moore walking out of that boardroom, Whitmore & Hale had lost more than half its total value.
The company was bleeding.
Not slowly.
Not gradually.
It was bleeding the way a man bleeds when he doesn't even know where the wound is.
Fast.
Quiet.
Everywhere at once.
Richard couldn't stop it.
He held meetings.
Screamed at executives.
Blamed Douglas.
Blamed the market.
Blamed competitors.
Blamed everyone and everything except the one thing that had actually caused it.
Himself.
The board of directors watched in silence for as long as they could.
Catherine Ellis, the chairwoman, had been making phone calls for weeks.
Quiet ones.
The kind of calls that happen behind closed doors and don't show up on any calendar.
Then she made the call that changed everything.
Emergency board meeting.
Friday.
9:00 a.m.
Mandatory attendance.
No agenda provided.
Richard walked in expecting to take charge.
He wore his best suit.
Adjusted his cufflinks in the elevator.
Practiced his opening line.
Something about resilience.
Something about leadership in difficult times.
He pushed open the boardroom door.
The same boardroom.
Same table.
Same chairs.
Same 12 seats, though three of them now belonged to different people because the originals had already resigned.
But nobody looked at him.
Not one person turned their head when Richard Whitmore entered the room.
Not Catherine Ellis.
Not Douglas Crane.
Not a single board member.
Every pair of eyes was locked on the far wall.
On a screen.
On a press release projected in high definition across the full width of the room.
The logo at the top was simple.
Clean.
Moore Capital Group.
And beneath the logo was a photograph.
A man in a modest suit.
No gold cufflinks.
No designer tie.
Just a calm, steady face looking directly into the camera.
Harold Moore.