Read Chapter 7: The Board Showdown

The boardroom at AlgoSens had never felt smaller. Twelve chairs, a lacquered table that Camille had once thought elegant, and now the weight of every investor who had ever smiled at a demo day pressed down on the air. The tall windows looked out over the gray Paris skyline, but no one was admiring the view.

Camille stood at the head of the table, Antoine beside her. Their slide deck glowed on the wall screen—a clean, unified vision of the product's next six months. For the first time since he'd walked into her office, she didn't have to fight him on every bullet point. They'd rehearsed for three hours last night. He'd pushed back on her phrasing twice. She'd changed it. No victory, no defeat. Just a coherent story.

"We're not asking for more money to build more features," Camille said, her voice steady. "We're asking for runway to prove the model. The health-sector pilot shows we can move from consumer engagement to B2B contracts at a margin that actually covers our cost structure. Antoine?"

He stepped forward, clicking to the next slide. His suit was dark, his tie straight. "The churn data from the pilot is the strongest signal we've seen in twelve months. Thirty-four percent of pilot users returned for a second session within a week. That's not a feature spike—that's a habit loop. If we can transition even a quarter of our consumer base into this paid tier, we're looking at positive unit economics by Q3."

Camille glanced at the faces around the table. Delphine Rousseau, lead investor from Meridian Capital, nodded slowly. Good. Next to her, Philippe Garnier from the seed round was frowning at his tablet, but he always frowned. And at the far end, Jacques Beaumont.

Jacques had been her champion since the beginning. He'd been the one to introduce her to Meridian, the one who'd vouched for her when she'd taken the product lead job over a more senior candidate. He'd never once wavered in her presence. But today, when she caught his eye, he looked away.

That tiny gesture lodged in her ribs like a splinter.

"We appreciate the clarity," Delphine said, setting down her pen. "But clarity doesn't change the balance sheet. Paul tells me you have six weeks of runway. Even with this pilot, you can't close a Series A on a single contract. What happens if the client doesn't renew? What happens if your churn numbers normalize? We need a plan that doesn't rely on hope."

"Hope isn't a strategy," Philippe added. "And frankly, we've seen two quarters of declining engagement metrics. The user base isn't growing at the rate we projected. Some of us are wondering if the product has plateaued."

Camille felt the familiar heat rise up her neck. She kept her expression neutral.

"The plateau is a function of our current UX architecture, not the underlying technology," Antoine said smoothly. "Once we ship the modular redesign—which we can do in six weeks with the current team—we can A/B test against our legacy interface and show a measurable lift."

"Six weeks is an eternity," Delphine said. "And a redesign is a bet. We've funded bets before. Some of them paid off. Some of them didn't."

The room went quiet. Camille could hear the distant hum of the espresso machine from the kitchenette. She looked at Jacques again. He was studying his hands.

"Jacques," she said, her voice softer now, almost private. "You've seen us pivot before. When we lost the consumer contract last year, we rebuilt the recommendation engine in four weeks. That's what kept us alive. We know how to move fast when it matters."

Jacques looked up. His eyes were tired. "I do, Camille. But last year we had a different burn rate. We had grants. We had a government contract that carried us. Now—" He spread his hands. "I'm not saying I don't believe in you. I'm saying the math is harder than it's ever been."

She heard what he didn't say. *I'm not sure I can carry you again.*

Camille looked at Antoine. They'd planned for questions, for pushback, for hostile grilling. They hadn't planned for this. She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded document she'd printed that morning, before the sun was fully up, on the way to the office, still uncertain if she'd have the nerve to use it.

"Then let me give you a different kind of risk."

She set the document on the table. Delphine's eyes narrowed.

"Three weeks ago, I had a conversation with a venture partner at a Berlin-based funds firm—Kirn Capital," Camille said. "They're looking to expand into the French market. They have a portfolio of health-tech companies that would benefit from our recommendation engine as a white-label solution. I've been in informal discussions with them, but I'd been holding off until we had our own house in order."

"You've been negotiating without board approval?" Philippe's voice was sharp.

"I've been exploring," Camille corrected. "But this document is a draft term sheet. They're willing to lead a bridge round at a favorable valuation if we can show a positive revenue projection in three weeks. It's a partnership, not a handout. They want integration, a joint pilot, European expansion. It's ambitious. It's bold. And it changes the conversation from whether we're a dying startup to whether we can become a European player."

The room buzzed. Delphine picked up the document and skimmed it. Her expression was unreadable. She handed it to Philippe, who read it more slowly, then passed it to Jacques.

Jacques studied the page. When he looked up, there was something like hope in his eyes. That was the first time Camille had felt the room shift.

"Kirn Capital," Jacques said. "I know their general partner. They're serious people. But three weeks is a tight window to deliver a revenue projection they'd believe."

"Three weeks is what we have," Camille said. "We'll use the pilot data to build a conservative model. No inflated numbers." She allowed herself a tiny, private smile at her own lie—she'd already done enough inflating for one lifetime. "Just honest projections based on the current contract plus a realistic expansion pipeline."

Delphine leaned back in her chair. "This is a significant departure from the plan you presented today. You came in here with a redesign story, and now you're proposing a strategic partnership with a foreign firm. Which is it, Camille?"

"Both," Camille said without hesitation. "The redesign is what makes us attractive to Kirn. The partnership is what makes the redesign viable for the long term. They're not competing strategies—they're sequential. We can't have one without the other."

Antoine stepped up beside her, close enough that his arm brushed hers. "We've vetted the technical integration. Their systems are compatible with our API. The timeline is aggressive but doable."

"Doable by whom?" Delphine asked quietly. "Neither of you has a finance background. Paul is already stretched thin. Who's going to build this projection model while you're shipping a redesign?"

"I will," Camille said. "I've done the financial modeling for the past two grant applications. I know our cost structure better than anyone except Paul."

Philippe traded a look with Delphine. Jacques was still reading the term sheet.

Finally, Delphine set down her pen and folded her hands. "We've heard your proposal. It's not what we came here to decide, and I won't make a decision on a draft term sheet in this room. We'll defer the liquidation vote until we've had time to review this document properly."

Camille's heart hammered. "And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, you have three weeks to produce a revenue projection that satisfies Kirn and that we can verify independently. If you deliver that, we'll revisit the round. If you can't—" Delphine stood, gathering her papers. "We reconvene for the liquidation vote, and no last-minute partnerships will save you."

She walked out. Philippe followed. The other investors shuffled out in silence, leaving only Jacques.

He rose and came around the table. Camille's throat was tight. She'd veered from the script. She'd gambled everything on a company she'd never even formally pitched. She didn't know if Kirn would actually come through, or if they were just a name on a term sheet she'd privately requested after a LinkedIn cold message.

"Jacques," she said. "I should have told you first. I'm sorry."

He looked at her, and something in his expression softened. "You have three weeks, Camille. That's more than we had twenty minutes ago. Make it count."

He left. The room was empty, the projector still humming. Antoine let out a long breath and leaned against the table.

"That was either brilliant or reckless."

"Maybe both," Camille admitted. "I need to call Kirn tonight and make sure that term sheet isn't just paper."

"You've never even spoken to their general partner, have you?"

Camille looked at the door, at the space where Delphine had stood. "No. I emailed them a cold outreach three days ago. They haven't responded."

Antoine stared at her. He didn't say anything for a long moment. Then he laughed, a low, tired sound. "You really are something else, Camille."

"Something desperate," she said quietly. "But I'll make it work."

Her phone buzzed. A message from Théo: *Meet me before the board meeting. I found something in the logs that you need to see. Don't tell Antoine.*

She pocketed the phone and didn't look at it again.

Three weeks. A cold term sheet. A room full of investors waiting for her to fail. And an employee she couldn't trust, who had dirt on her rival, and who might know something about her own fabricated numbers.

The board had bought her time.

She had no idea what she'd do with it.