While Virex CEO was battling with how he would survive the scandal and Legal issues.
A private Zoom eting was being held, quiet and controlled, the kind where everybody acted like they were calm even though fear was sitting in their stomach like stone. Faces filled the screen, big nas, big agencies, the sa people who hated being seen in the sa room, but today they didn’t have a choice because the ss had gotten too loud.
This was the sa pwole who ca together to deal with Dayo at first before backing out.
One of them spoke first, voice low, like he didn’t want the words to leave the screen.
"I’m just happy we moved our hands early."
Another nodded imdiately, eyes sharp. "If this stain touched us, we are done for. Finished. No partnership will touch us, no investors will trust us, no one will sign under our na again."
Soone leaned forward, irritated. "We warned him. We warned him not to ss with that boy. We warned him the mont the first clip started moving. We said stop, cool it down, keep it under wraps, don’t keep poking soone you don’t understand."
A short silence followed, not because they had nothing to say, but because everybody was thinking about the sa thing and nobody wanted to say it first.
Then soone asked, bluntly.
"What about the Virex CEO?"
A man on the call scoffed like the answer was obvious. "What about him? If he cannot survive this, he should resign."
Another voice added, calm but cold. "Ergency board eting already ans they’re preparing to cut him off. Boards don’t call ergency etings for sympathy. They call them for removal."
A third person sighed, irritated. "And from the look of things, he might even be forced to sell his shares. Because this is beyond a personal scandal now. This has turned into Virex as a company being painted as dirty."
Soone else shook his head slowly. "The worst part is that the person backing Dayo is huge now. Bigger than we calculated. And that assistant already went outside and spoke before. So the public has a face. They have a chain. They have a story. We cannot be tied to this."
A woman on the call spoke calmly, like she was reading a final mo.
"So we agree. No public support. No soft statents. No ’we stand with him.’ If anyone asks, we distance ourselves completely. Let the board bury him. We just stay clean."
Nobody argued, because this wasn’t friendship, it was survival. The eting ended with one final line, blunt and final.
"Let the board bury him."
Screens went dark one after the other.
At Virex HQ, the building didn’t feel like a company anymore.
It felt like a place waiting for a verdict.
Even the air inside the corridors carried sothing tight, like everyone was holding their breath. Staff walked carefully, phones kept buzzing then going quiet, eyes avoided each other like eye contact could drag them into the fire too. It wasn’t chaos, it was worse than chaos, it was controlled fear.
The ergency board eting had been scheduled fast, not as a discussion, not as a brainstorming session, but as the kind of eting companies call when their na is bleeding and they need to stop it by cutting sothing off.
Executives were already seated in the main conference room, suits too neat, faces too blank. So of them were Virex n, so of them were not, and you could tell the difference because the outsiders weren’t tense, they were offended, like their reputation had been insulted personally.
A large screen at the front showed multiple Zoom boxes lined up in rows. Major shareholders. Board mbers. People who weren’t in the building but still owned the building, people whose voices didn’t shake because they had no reason to fear the CEO.
Docunts were laid out on the table in clean stacks. Screenshots. Headlines. Engagent graphs. Sponsor emails. Partner concerns. Internal mos showing "risk assessnt" in bold, as if bold letters could stop the public from talking.
They weren’t eting because they wanted to understand him.
They were eting because the company’s na had beco the headline.
Because PR had failed.
Because no matter how much noise they pumped into the internet, no matter what other scandals they tried to flood the tiline with, the public kept dragging everything back to the sa thing like a hook in the mouth.
Because the assistant had already stepped out and flipped the attention toward the CEO.
And now, with the new clip, it wasn’t even "speculation" anymore, it was people repeating his na like it was confird truth.
The CEO walked in and felt it imdiately.
Not the respect he was used to.
Not the fear that fed his ego.
Just a room that had already decided he was the problem.
He sat down at the head of the table because that was his seat, but the seat didn’t feel like power anymore, it felt like a spotlight.
A board mber spoke first, voice smooth, corporate calm, the kind of calm that sounded like a knife.
"We are here because the company cannot carry this anymore."
Another one followed without even looking at him properly.
"Our reputation is being treated like a villain’s brand. We are losing control of the narrative. We are losing trust."
A shareholder on the Zoom screen cut in, voice sharper.
"You were given ti. You were given resources. You were given PR support. You were given money and influence. Yet the situation escalated. It didn’t reduce, it escalated."
The CEO’s jaw tightened, but he kept his face straight.
Soone else spoke, flipping through docunts like he was reading charges.
"This is no longer ’CEO versus Dayo.’ This is Virex as a whole being accused of coordinated manipulation. Our partners are scared. Our investors are calling. Brands are pausing discussions. Artists are being dragged online for simply being under our roof."
Another executive added, slower.
"And we have a specific issue you have not been able to answer in a clean way. Why did your na appear in that clip?"
The room didn’t raise voices.
They didn’t need to.
The tone was already a verdict.
The CEO finally spoke, forced calm, but the irritation was sitting under every word.
"You’re acting like I woke up and decided to destroy the company. You’re acting like I’m the only person who has ever done dirty work in this industry."
No one reacted.
That silence annoyed him more than shouting would have.
He tried again, voice rising slightly.
"I have given more than half of my life to this company. I built relationships. I defended this na. I brought deals. I brought talent. And now you’re all sitting here like strangers judging like I’m disposable."
A board mber replied, still calm.
"This is not personal. This is risk."
The CEO laughed once, bitter.
"Risk? You were not complaining when the company was growing."
A shareholder’s voice cut through the room, impatient.
"Enough. You keep talking like this is about feelings. This is about value. This is about survival. You beca the face of sothing that is now poisoning the company’s na."
The CEO leaned forward, anger leaking out.
"So what? You want to take all the bla while everybody else pretends they were innocent? You want to be your sacrifice so you can continue smiling in interviews?"
That was when the founder spoke.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just authority.
A voice that didn’t argue because it didn’t need permission to speak.
"Shut up."
The room went still.
Even the CEO froze, because that voice wasn’t a board mber trying to sound powerful, it was the real power. The founder’s face was on one of the Zoom screens, eyes steady, expression flat, like the CEO was a disappointing employee rather than a man who once ran the building.
"We gave you resources. We gave you coverage. We gave you access. We gave you ti. You wasted it," the founder said, voice tight. "You didn’t just fail to control the narrative, you made the company look like it operates like a criminal outfit."
The CEO swallowed, but the founder didn’t slow down.
"You will step down."
The CEO’s mouth opened, but the founder spoke over him imdiately.
"No negotiation. No speeches. You will step down, and you will be forced to sell your shares if you want this to end clean. If you refuse, we will remove you the hard way, and you will not run another major entertainnt operation again and also dont forget to apologize to thw publìv and Dayo because we would have to foot the bill for the legal battle.
The CEO’s face tightened.
The founder’s eyes didn’t change.
"This is not a threat. This is the company protecting itself."
For a mont, the CEO looked like he wanted to explode, like he wanted to throw the table, like he wanted to remind them who he was.
But he didn’t.
Because he finally understood the power gap.
He wasn’t being questioned anymore.
He was being removed.
And the silence he fell into wasn’t acceptance.
It was the cold realization that the industry had already moved its hands off him, and now even the company he thought he owned was treating him like a stain it needed to wipe off fast.
The eting didn’t end with shouting.
It ended with sothing worse.
People calmly preparing the paperwork.
Like he was already gone.
User Comments
0 comments from readers