The crisis didn't wait for permission.
It arrived at dawn—an urgent call that cut through sleep and hesitation alike.
A partner division had frozen operations overnight. Contracts stalled. Teams confused. Media inquiries already circling.
By the time I reached the office, the executive floor was alive with tension.
This time, Arvan didn't lead the response.
He didn't even enter the room.
That was the point.
The board wanted to see how authority functioned without him nearby.
I stood at the head of the table as reports flashed across the screen.
"Containment first," I said calmly. "No statements until facts are verified."
Someone hesitated. "Shouldn't we wait for—"
"No," I replied evenly. "We move now."
Decisions followed. Calls were placed. Teams mobilized.
I didn't rush.
I didn't soften.
I led.
Hours passed before the situation stabilized. Damage limited. Confidence restored.
When the last call ended, silence filled the room.
Not relief.
Respect.
Later, as the building emptied again, Arvan appeared at my doorway.
He hadn't interfered.
He hadn't checked in.
He had trusted me.
"You handled it," he said quietly.
"I had to," I replied.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
"I stayed away on purpose," he admitted. "Not because I didn't care—but because I knew you didn't need cover."
"I felt that," I said. "And it was terrifying."
"And?" he asked.
"And it worked."
We stood there—not victorious, not exhausted.
Grounded.
"Trust doesn't mean standing close," he said. "It means knowing when to let go."
I met his gaze.
"And choosing to come back," I replied.
He nodded once.
Because authority had stood alone today.
And it hadn't broken.