Prologue: Lust in the Time of LinkedIn
There they were—America’s newest corporate sweethearts. Not Brad and Angelina. Not JFK and Marilyn. Not even Elon and whatever synthetic android companion he's currently beta-testing at Neuralink HQ. No—this was different. This was real. This was raw. This was two senior executives dry-humping the last remnants of credibility on the kiss cam at a stadium full of employees, vendors, shareholders, and future witnesses for the prosecution.
A CEO and a CHRO—Chief Romantic Officer, apparently—locking lips like hormonal high schoolers while married to other people, their children presumably at home watching Pixar, and their shareholders gagging on foie gras.
Forget hushed whispers and Slack flirtations. This was full-frontal fiduciary failure, broadcast in 4K Ultra HD, and now etched into the great pantheon of Business Decisions That Will Be Taught in Ethics Seminars Until the Sun Implodes.
But wait—it gets juicier (and yes, Sports Fans, this is the view from behind the velvet curtains).
Kristen Cabot, our scandal-stained HR heroine, wasn’t just anybody. Just over two years ago, she finalized a quiet little divorce from her first husband, Kenneth Thornby. And then—faster than you can say “codependent connection”—she traded up for a shinier trophy: Andrew Cabot, CEO of Privateer Rum and heir to the Boston Brahmin Cabot family fortune. The same Cabots who settled Salem, Massachusetts in the 1700s—meaning they've been marrying witches and getting burned for centuries.
Andrew Cabot may come from old money, but this particular trust-fund pirate was only worth about $15 million on his own. Still, with the rum business booming and the family’s billions sloshing around in trust accounts and antique mahogany sideboards, it was an attractive enough trade for Kristen. After all, she wasn’t looking for a soulmate—she was looking for liquidity.
But then came Andy Byron.
Now this was a mark. CEO of Astronomer, current net worth estimated at $70 million, with another $75–$100 million in equity and warrants ready to vest at the company’s upcoming IPO or spinout—until, of course, he decided to vaporize it all with one steamy jumbotron smooch.
Enter Kristen again—now rebranded as the corporate world’s most charming black widow. A modern-day praying mantis mercenary. A compliance queen with a killer smile and a pension for asset-backed affection.
Because, make no mistake: Kristen Cabot didn’t fall in love—she sniffed opportunity. This wasn’t tainted love, this was stock-option seduction. This was the art of the strategic affair, expertly choreographed between spreadsheets, all-hands meetings, and pillow talk whispered in ESG-approved hotel rooms.
And if you’re wondering what happened to Andy Byron, the man who had it all? He’s gone. Career incinerated. Reputation nuked. IPO upside? Gone with the wind—and the warrants.
And here's the kicker: like the male praying mantis, he didn’t just get metaphorically decapitated—he kept mating reflexively, vigorously, even more enthusiastically after the damage was done. Nature’s most poetic takedown. The ultimate case of losing your head in love.
So, we used to ask: Can love bloom in the workplace? Now we ask: Can anyone keep it in their pants long enough to survive a liquidity event?
This isn’t just a scandal. It’s a symphony of self-destruction, set to the beat of toxic affection and performed in front of an audience of stunned employees with popcorn and Slack memes. It’s Cupid’s IPO, overleveraged and delisted. It’s corporate love, not the Romeo-and-Juliet kind, but the burnout love flavor—with a hint of rum, a dash of betrayal, and a garnish of broken NDAs.
And now? They’re both done. Fired. Humiliated. Memed into oblivion. Their kids are asking uncomfortable questions. Their lawyers are clocking billable hours. Their holiday cards this year will be less “festive” and more res ipsa loquitur.
So, buckle up. We’re about to dissect every flavor of corporate romance—flesh worship, boardroom chemistry, velvet addiction, and the kind of PR romance that turns love into a line item. Because in today’s workplace, love isn’t blind—it’s just terminally stupid.
And Sports Fans, after watching C-Suite immolation for over four decades, I can tell you with certainty that someone always ends up headless.
Chapter I: The CEO, the CHRO, and the Kiss Cam
They say love is blind. Apparently, so is common sense—especially when you’re the CEO of a rocket ship valued at over a billion dollars and the head of HR is licking your face on the kiss cam in front of employees, vendors, spouses, and one poor marketing intern who just wanted to watch baseball.
Until that moment, everything was soaring. Executive retreats in Sonoma. ESG seminars delivered with TED Talk smugness. Workplace policies drafted with the zeal of Puritans on Prozac. A culture playbook so thick it had footnotes, diagrams, and a glossary for “inclusive excellence.”
And then? The Jumbotron lit up.
There they were: Andy Byron, CEO of Astronomer, and Kristen Cabot, CHRO and newly minted compliance cautionary tale, locked in a mid-level HR violation disguised as a passionate kiss. In public. At a company-sponsored event. While married. To other people.
That single smooch instantly became The Moment—a 60-foot hi-def disaster that launched a thousand screenshots, a hundred memes, and at least twelve executive recruiter retainers by the following morning.
But this wasn’t just your average scandal. This was $1.3 billion of venture-backed catastrophe in real time. Because Astronomer wasn’t just a startup with an edge—it had just closed a $100 million Series D funding round led by Bain Capital, with participation from the most pedigreed names in the Valley’s financial aristocracy. The IPO timing was still TBA, but the valuation was climbing, the market was watching, and the only thing rising faster than expectations was Andy Byron’s inopportune dopamine surge.
And then came the fallout.
The board went DEFCON 1. Phones rang. Lawyers cleared calendars. And over the next three hours, my inbox exploded with dozens of emails from rattled VCs, board chairs, and anxious LPs.
Each one began the same way.
Subject: DUDE.
That was it. “Dude.” - Followed by frantic paragraphs asking what happened, how bad it really was, and whether I knew a discreet firm that could “reassess our leadership optics before it hits The Information.”
Because when your unicorn suddenly veers off course to play spin-the-bottle with its own HR function, you don’t call PR. You call The Whisperer.
And yes, they called me.
Let’s be clear: this was no torrid affair of the heart. This was corporate love in its most dangerous form—strategic, impulsive, stupid. It was boardroom chemistry turned up to 11 and libidinal loyalty laced with midlife crisis. Andy Byron wasn’t making out with his soulmate. He was French-kissing $75 to $100 million in pre-IPO equity goodbye.
And Kristen? Kristen Cabot didn’t trip into passion—she executed a hostile takeover of romantic boundaries. This was not her first M&A transaction. Just over two years ago, she divorced husband #1, Kenneth Thornby, only to immediately trade up to Andrew Cabot, CEO of Privateer Rum and heir to the Boston Brahmin Cabot family fortune. Granted, Andrew’s personal net worth is a modest $15 million—but the old-money mystique, the family trust fog, and the artisanal rum game were apparently intoxicating enough for Kristen to swap rings faster than a Series B investor chasing IRR.
And yet, here we are.
The trust-fund rum runner gets dumped. The IPO CEO gets decapitated. The CHRO praying mantis earns her nickname by consuming her mate's career on live television, as is tradition in the insect kingdom.
In the wild, the male mantis keeps mating even after the female bites off his head—scientists call it a reflexive thrust response.
In corporate America, we call it Andy Byron.
He didn’t just lose control—he lost equity, reputation, and the one thing every founder fears most: narrative. His moment of flesh worship cost him everything. And all Kristen had to do was smile and update her résumé with, “Led cultural transformation during executive transition.”
This wasn’t a love story. This was Cupid’s IPO, overhyped, overpriced, and yanked off the market before it ever filed an S-1:
And their careers? Listed under “Deferred Desire” and “Ghosted Romance.”
All for a kiss. - A stupid, public, billion-dollar kiss.
So the next time a CEO feels that tingle in the breakroom—just remember: you’re not starring in a rom-com. You’re dry-humping your way into a series of clawbacks, an HR investigation, and a cameo in the next ethics compliance video.
Chapter II: Cave Men, Catastrophes, and Crotches
Let’s not pretend any of this is new.
What happened between Andy Byron and Kristen Cabot wasn’t a modern tragedy—it was a prehistoric reflex with better lighting and worse NDAs. We've been behaving like this for over 10,000 years—raging hormones in silk robes, loincloths, or Gucci, throwing caution, morals, and marital vows straight into the nearest firepit (or Slack channel).
Courtship, once upon a time, meant grunting, dragging, and declaring yourself alpha because you had a shinier rock. If the wheel was humanity’s first invention, the second was probably a chastity belt—for the village chief’s daughter, or himself, depending on which shaman you asked. And evolution? It didn’t solve the problem. It just gave the crotch a promotion, a budget, and an Instagram account.
And let’s be clear: “crotch” is gloriously gender-neutral. It doesn’t care what you pack—it just wants to unpack. That pendulum swings in every direction. Boys, girls, they/thems, and the historically horny of all identities have proven, time and time again, that the only thing faster than lust is the speed at which it destroys empires. Our sex organs are like biological frat boys and sorority girls on spring break in Tulum—sunburned, overconfident, chemically imbalanced, and fully convinced that the tequila-fueled dance they’re doing on the conference table is true love.
It’s a tale as old as civilization. The ancient Egyptians wrote the first chapters in eyeliner and sibling marriage. Their royal bloodlines were so tightly interwoven they made double helixes look like casual acquaintances. Pharaohs routinely married their sisters—King Tut was the product of incest—and bedded their nieces. Cleopatra seduced Julius Caesar first, and when that went south (and Roman politics got stabby), she moved on to Mark Antony, turning two of the most powerful men in the ancient world into hormonal interns willing to hand over empires for a wink and a boat ride down the Nile.
The Greeks gave us democracy, philosophy, and a mentorship model that would get you canceled before your second toga fitting. Socrates and Plato were less interested in democracy and more interested in “educational intimacy” with teenage boys. On the other end of the gender pendulum, Sappho of Lesbos was writing longing, lyric poetry for her female students with more heat than your average E.L. James novel. And who could forget Helen of Troy, who ran off with Paris, the boy-band-looking prince of Troy, just to spice up her boring marriage to Menelaus—thereby launching the Trojan War and the world’s first midlife crisis-fueled international conflict.
The Romans didn’t just cross lines—they eliminated them. Caligula didn’t just marry his horse Incitatus, he allegedly had a passionate, hands-on relationship with his mother, Agrippina the Younger, because—why not? Nero castrated a young boy named Sporus, dressed him up like his deceased wife Poppaea Sabina, then married him and paraded him through the empire as his empress. If HBO pitched that, the legal team would object on decency grounds—and they greenlit Euphoria.
The medieval period was no less chaotic. Eleanor of Aquitaine wasn’t just Queen of France and then England—she was said to have lovers across Europe, most notably rumored to include her uncle Raymond of Poitiers, and possibly her troubadours. Isabella of France, the “She-Wolf of France,” was married to King Edward II, whose true affection was for his male favorite Piers Gaveston—a relationship so overt and disruptive it sparked civil unrest. Isabella responded in kind by taking Roger Mortimer as her lover, invading England, deposing her husband, and ruling as de facto queen. That’s not a love triangle—it’s a medieval hostile takeover.
Henry VIII, ever the romantic, had six wives and countless mistresses—chief among them Mary Boleyn, the sister of future wife Anne Boleyn, whom he later executed when she failed to deliver a male heir and allegedly flirted with her brother. Love and power have always made bad roommates.
Marie Antoinette, Queen of France and headliner of Versailles’ social circus, had a not-so-secret affection for Axel von Fersen, a Swedish count who was rumored to be more than just a friend. While Paris starved, she was said to be sending coded love letters sealed with perfume—proof that pillow talk and political collapse often go hand in hand.
And then there’s Catherine the Great. No, she didn’t die having sex with a horse. But the fact that we still bring it up proves the world's collective panic over powerful women with libidos. Catherine had lovers well into her sixties, including Grigory Orlov, Stanisław Poniatowski, Grigory Potemkin, and Alexander Dmitriev-Mamonov, all young, ambitious men who found themselves promoted faster than you can say “imperial consort.” One of them was 22 when she was in her sixties, and he thought he was getting a cushy post. Turns out, he was the post.
In more recent times, Wallis Simpson seduced King Edward VIII, leading him to abdicate the British throne in 1936 to marry her—a woman twice divorced, once labeled “unsuitable,” and permanently banned from Buckingham Palace by his own family. Imelda Marcos, wife of Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos, turned high heels into foreign policy while reportedly entertaining powerful admirers from across the globe. Paula Broadwell, a biographer, torpedoed the career of General David Petraeus, the then-director of the CIA, with a classified-affair-turned-public-fiasco that started with jogging sessions and ended with an FBI investigation.
Marilyn Monroe, America’s blonde bombshell, was intimately linked with President John F. Kennedy—and reportedly his brother Robert Kennedy, too. Her sultry rendition of “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” is still the gold standard for awkward workplace flirtation. Monica Lewinsky, a White House intern, and President Bill Clinton ignited the most famous Oval Office scandal in American history—with a cigar, a blue dress, and enough subpoenas to wallpaper the West Wing. And more recently, Stormy Daniels, adult film actress, and Donald J. Trump brought hush money, NDAs, and courtroom theatrics into the American living room.
And now, enter Kristen Cabot.
Today’s Kristen is no different than Cleopatra, Catherine, or Sappho—she just has a LinkedIn profile and better hair extensions. Her scandal isn’t larger—it’s just louder. Digitized. Distributed. Replayed in high-def slow motion while VCs clutch their pitch decks and spouses lawyer up.
We’re not in a new era. We’re just running the same genetic script on a faster processor. These aren’t isolated incidents. These are limbic loop loops, cortisol cocktails, and bad decisions made under flattering lighting and the illusion of mutual power.
Because every time the crotch takes the wheel—his, hers, or theirs—we end up with stock options in ashes, boardrooms on fire, historical footnotes updated, and some poor intern whispering, “Wait, she did what with the horse?”
Love isn’t blind. - It’s just terminally stupid with a corporate discount code.
Chapter III: Love in the Workplace – When Cupid Commutes
Sure, sometimes it works.
Bill and Melinda Gates (until the divorce settlement included beachfront properties, jet fuel allocations, and a shared philanthropic custody agreement).
Barack and Michelle Obama (yes, the most elegant workplace romance in White House history—powered by brainpower, biceps, and matching moral compasses).
Or the ICU nurse who married the cardiac surgeon she once paged for a code blue and now sends him heart emojis from their lake house in Tahoe while the twins practice cello on the deck.
Yes, love can survive fluorescent lighting.
But let’s get real: for every rare storybook ending, there are 10,000 caffeine-fueled flings, 4,000 mutual delusions, and at least 2,500 really bad ideas that started over a stale bagel in the breakroom and ended in a Slack thread named “Archived – Do Not Revisit.”
Because most workplace romances aren’t about destiny - They’re about proximity and the complete obliteration of judgment under the soft blue glow of PowerPoint.
You’re not in love, Todd. You’re just stranded in a climate-controlled Petri dish with quarterly goals, a broken espresso machine, and the one person in Accounting who smells like lavender and knows the difference between a semicolon and a vibe. That’s not romance. That’s pheromonal Stockholm Syndrome in a lanyard.
Workplaces today are designed for emotional confusion. They’re polished, perky environments engineered to simulate human connection and confuse you into thinking that maybe—just maybe—that woman who always compliments your spreadsheets is your soulmate.
She’s not. She’s just polite.
And the companies? They’re practically begging for it to happen.
Forget WeWork—we’ve already roasted that soggy startup orgy enough. Let’s talk about the real enablers: Salesforce Tower’s lobby is basically a perfume-advertisement set for lonely high-functioning professionals. Meta’s campus has more wellness centers than coding desks, and their kombucha taps are just pheromone bombs in disguise. If you’ve never felt dangerously attracted to someone during a walking 1:1 between eucalyptus trees, you haven’t lived.
At Google, the nap pods? They’re misnamed. Those things have seen more action than half of Tinder. The best-kept secret in Mountain View isn’t AI—it’s how many PMs have tested the company’s “don’t be evil” policy between all-hands meetings. And don't get me started on Amazon—warehouse workers may be tracked to the second, but some of those S-Team executives have had “overnight fulfillment” issues that no chatbot can fix.
And in fintech? Oh, it’s even more pathological. At Stripe, it’s not love—it’s high-IQ foreplay sprinkled with equity vesting, long-term incentive plans, and a faint hope that someone will finally understand their obsession with data normalization.
We’re not in offices anymore—we’re in human terrariums with sliding glass walls, air filtration, and just enough ambient loneliness to convince two colleagues that mutual trauma over a failed product launch equals a meaningful connection.
It doesn’t.
And let’s not confuse this with modern romance. What you’re feeling is algorithmic affection curated by 80-hour workweeks, deadline-induced dopamine, and too much LaCroix. Cupid isn’t visiting. He’s on a scooter in a branded hoodie, hurling mood swings and misinterpreted eye contact at the nearest quarterly planner.
Workplace attraction isn’t about love—it’s about options collapse. It’s musical chairs for your genitals. You spend 10 hours a day in close proximity to the same half-dozen people, and suddenly Todd from Revenue Ops seems mysterious because he uses em-dashes and owns a French press. He’s not mysterious. He’s just recently divorced.
But the real danger isn’t in the flirting—it’s in the delusion.
Because let’s be honest: half of these “relationships” are just power asymmetries in better shoes. There’s nothing romantic about a VP who “mentors” a mid-level associate with an uncanny ability to fake laughter and an even better ability to write summary emails. It’s not love. It’s performance-based attraction optimized for vertical mobility. Cupid didn’t shoot an arrow—he booked a 30-minute calendar slot titled “synergy alignment.”
And when it blows up? Oh, it really blows up.
The golden handcuff affair arrives—two people locked in emotional tax evasion, bound by shared benefits, matching Patagonia vests, and the fear that breaking up might mean losing access to the master Google Sheet.
They’re not together out of passion. They’re together because neither wants to update their HR file. The only thing more awkward than the relationship itself is the “conscious uncoupling” during Q3 planning sessions, followed by six months of ghosting via calendar declines and a slow but unmistakable war over who owns the team playlist.
It gets darker.
There’s the promotion limbo breakup: “It’s not you, it’s just… leadership isn’t aligned.” The re-org rebound: where one party finds love in a new business unit before the tears are even dry. And of course, the mutual ghosting that becomes a viral Slack thread, complete with gifs, emoji reactions, and one brave intern who dares ask, “Hey, weren’t you two…?”
Let’s not forget HR—the poor souls who are always the last to know, the first to triage, and the ones forced to rewrite the company policy after the VP of Sales and the Director of Design are caught half-naked in the DEI reflection room.
And for the record, yes—it happens to women, too. There are plenty of female execs navigating their own boardroom chemistry, only to realize too late that the intern with the Harvard pedigree and “old soul” aura is actually just a 24-year-old manchild with mommy issues and a future in crypto. Gender equity applies to disaster, too.
So, the next time someone in your office gives you that flirty Friday glance over a burrito bowl, ask yourself: is this love… or is this just mid-cycle burnout searching for a soft place to crash?
Because workplace love almost never ends in a wedding.
It ends in whispered side-eyes, frozen promotions, co-owned furniture neither of you wants back, and a final All-Hands where one of you claps just a little too aggressively when the other’s transfer is announced.
Cupid commutes, yes. But at this company? He’s on a PIP.
Chapter IV: Affairs That Shook the Boardroom (and the Bedposts)
Over the years, I’ve seen more behind-the-scenes action than a Netflix reboot of Dynasty. When you’re a first responder to boardroom meltdowns and CEO scandals like I am, you stop being shocked. You start keeping receipts. And occasionally, you pop popcorn.
I’ve walked into meetings where the CEO’s assistant was also the reason HR just submitted a hostile workplace complaint. I’ve been pulled aside at offsites and handed hotel keycards "accidentally left behind." I’ve watched divorces ignite during cocktail hours and reputations die on red-eye flights. I’ve been called to the scene more times than a Vegas wedding planner—just with fewer flowers and more NDAs.
But one moment lives in infamy.
It was a humid summer night in Manhattan. My hotel room phone rang—2 a.m., of course. These calls always come at 2 a.m. We had just closed the IPO celebration dinner for a company that just hours earlier rang the bell at the New York Stock Exchange. I stood on that podium with the board and major investors as the CEO banged the gong and instantly pocketed nearly $200 million. His stunning wife of 25 years waited back at the hotel with hugs, champagne, and a private room service cart that probably had caviar.
Instead, the 2 a.m. call came from the chairman of the board.
"Come to my room. Now."
I knocked. He opened the door in his pajamas, holding a glass of scotch like it was morphine. He slumped into the armchair and muttered, “He’s been arrested.”
Turns out our newly minted mega-millionaire CEO had been pulled over while driving his Bentley back to the hotel—for soliciting a streetwalker. He’d unzipped, unfiltered, and unveiled—only to discover that the "woman" he propositioned was not only an undercover cop but a male officer in drag.
The NYSE halted trading on the company’s stock within 24 hours. The IPO was effectively dead on arrival. And his wife? Let's just say she popped the champagne anyway—alone. Freud was right: "Wenn der Putz steht, geht der Kopf." - When the organ stands, the brain flies away - literally.
Sports Fans, you can’t make this sh*t up.
And yet, in nearly every case, it wasn’t just sex. It was ego. Hypocrisy. Power. The kind that isn’t satisfied with a board seat—it wants the corner office and the coat check girl.
So, let’s do it. Now, let’s rip that velvet curtain wide open, and put a spotlight on some of the most absurd, outrageous, and tragically comedic affairs to ever rattle the foundations of business, politics, and pop culture. Names included. Careers excluded:
Steve Easterbrook (McDonald’s) – Hooked up with a subordinate while preaching family values and HR policies stricter than a fry machine timer. Fired. $40 million clawback. That’s a Happy Meal with a very sad toy.
Mark Hurd (HP) – Let’s just say expense reports weren’t the only thing getting reviewed. Ousted after a romantic entanglement and expense mishandling. Oracle picked him up anyway—because, you know, corporate amnesia.
Brian Dunn (Best Buy) – Had a relationship with a young employee while tanking morale and market share. Exit stage left. Hope he kept his Geek Squad discount.
Carlos Ghosn (Nissan-Renault) – Extravagant parties, secret apartments, and rumors of mistresses in every port. Escaped Japan in a box like a horny little Houdini.
Dominique Strauss-Kahn (IMF) – From the threshold of the French presidency to being perp-walked out of a Manhattan hotel in a bathrobe. Pro tip: don’t mix room service with room scandal.
Silvio Berlusconi (Italy) – The Italian Prime Minister who made orgies look like national strategy. Bunga bunga wasn't just a nickname—it was a punchline.
Les Moonves (CBS) – Accused of forced encounters, settlements, and predatory power moves that made even Hollywood say “yikes.” He left with millions. CBS left with a bruised conscience.
Jeff Zucker (CNN) – Promoted his secret lover, then got caught with his integrity down. Left CNN faster than breaking news.
Harry Stonecipher (Boeing) – Drafted Boeing’s ethics policy. Then broke it via flirty emails to a VP. The policy outlived his tenure.
Dov Charney (American Apparel) – Sexual harassment lawsuits, filmed “interviews,” and workplace behavior that made even the mannequins uncomfortable.
Eric Schmidt (Google) – Rumored to rotate romantic partners in every major city. Multitasking, the Google way.
Elon Musk (Tesla, SpaceX, X) – Babies with artists, execs, and subordinates. Took “work-life balance” to another galaxy. Sometimes simultaneously.
Gavin Newsom (Governor of California) – Hooked up with his best friend’s wife during his mayoral tenure. Somehow parlayed it into higher office and better hair.
Arnold Schwarzenegger (Former Governor) – Had a secret son with the housekeeper while still living with Maria Shriver. That “I’ll be back” line hit differently after that.
Bill Clinton (President) – Monica Lewinsky. The cigar. The stained blue dress. The secret trap door in the Oval Office closet. The impeachment. The dry cleaning tab never got paid. Bill’s idea of romance apparently stopped at $12.95.
John F. Kennedy (President) – Affairs with Marilyn Monroe, mob mistresses, and even interns. Camelot? More like Sham-a-lot.
Woody Allen – Married his long-time partner’s adopted daughter. Hollywood called it “troubling.” The rest of us called it “just please stop talking.”
Prince Charles (now King Charles III) – Spent decades pining for Camilla while married to Diana. Once fantasized about being her tampon (I'm not making this up). Proof that royalty isn’t immune to creepy pillow talk.
Princess Diana – Alleged affair with James Hewitt, the horse-riding instructor. Raised eyebrows and conspiracy theories still galloping today.
Prince Andrew – Associated with Jeffrey Epstein. “Didn’t sweat.” Didn’t survive public scrutiny either.
Rupert Murdoch – Divorced Wendi Deng after discovering her love letters to Tony Blair. When your ex crushes on your political frenemy, you know you’re in a British rom-com gone wrong.
Anna Wintour – Sustained a long-term affair with Shelby Bryan while he was still married. Proof that even ice queens melt when bored.
Matt Lauer – Had a button under his desk to lock his door remotely. And it wasn’t for privacy during earnings calls.
Charlie Rose – Made lewd requests while interviewing guests. Ruined the brand of PBS—and robes.
Roger Ailes – Turned Fox News into a frat house with better lighting. Finally ousted after a tidal wave of lawsuits.
Tony Hayward (BP) – Had a fling with a PR exec during the Deepwater spill. “I want my life back,” he said. So did the Gulf of Mexico.
David Petraeus – Slept with biographer Paula Broadwell. He gave her access to his “files.” Lost his CIA role and America’s last shred of trust.
Wendi Deng Murdoch – Loved Tony Blair. Wrote him fawning letters while married to media mogul Rupert Murdoch. Even Shakespeare would say, “Too much.”
David Sokol (Berkshire Hathaway) – Once Buffett’s heir apparent. Between conflicts of interest and romantic rumors, he quietly vanished from the succession chart.
John Edwards – Had an affair with a campaign videographer while his wife had terminal cancer. Lied about paternity. May he never be invited to another pancake breakfast.
Eliot Spitzer – Prosecuted prostitution rings by day. Then hired escorts by night. Went from crusader to Craigslist. Hypocrisy at it's finest.
Anthony Weiner – a.k.a. Carlos Danger. Sexted women, including a minor, while running for mayor. Ruined his marriage and possibly Hillary Clinton’s chances at presidency—all thanks to his wiener.
Boris Johnson – Fathered multiple children with multiple women while in public office. Britain’s favorite trainwreck with a comb-over.
Matt Hancock (UK Health Minister) – Made out with his aide while enforcing COVID lockdowns. Security footage did the rest. Career: ventilated.
In nearly every case, it wasn’t just the sex—it was the lie. The sanctimonious grin. The keynote on ethics delivered an hour after a hallway rendezvous.
They wrote the rules. Then broke them on a Westin king-size bed with a minibar Chardonnay in hand. The louder they preached, the deeper they reached—into company funds, direct reports, and disaster.
When they weren’t caught, they were whispered about. When they were caught, they were shocked—shocked!—that the public didn’t believe their PR apology penned by someone else at 2:14 a.m.
If you think this list is long, wait until Chapter V.
Because some of the worst offenders? Still have jobs. Still write policies. Still have you believing they’re “just really passionate about organizational culture.”
Spoiler: they’re not. Cupid’s commute continues.
Onward, shall we?
Chapter V: Do As We Say, Not As We Do
HR manuals read like scripture. Zero tolerance. No fraternization. No exceptions. No loopholes. Report to your supervisor if you're dating a colleague, even if the date was a casual lunch and the most action was splitting the check. Meanwhile, the same supervisor is having a three-year affair with his assistant, logging "offsites" at the Four Seasons and submitting “performance check-ins” coded in the expense system as “spa treatments.”
Nothing kills culture like hypocrisy. Not even layoffs. Not even foosball tables. Hypocrisy is the corporate mold—once it spreads, you can’t un-sniff it. Employees notice. Morale tanks. Productivity dies. Whistleblowers blow. The “Values” poster in the breakroom? Ripped down, dipped in sarcasm, and used to mop up the broken NDAs and melted ethics statements. The frame now hangs crooked, held up with chewing gum and plausible deniability.
I’ve spent decades watching this corporate theater play out like a Shakespearean tragedy with a PowerPoint deck and bad lighting. I’ve written comp plans for execs who were rewriting alibis. I’ve advised boards in the morning and read about their dalliances in Page Six by cocktail hour. You learn that behind every pristine compliance document is someone with a minibar key, a burner phone, and an NDA so specific it could double as a romantic prenup.
I've walked into war rooms where a CEO who once delivered a keynote on "modern leadership and consent culture" had just been found with two interns and a room service tray in Monaco. Or the CHRO who launched the company’s bold new anti-harassment policy—while simultaneously whispering sweet nothings to a VP in a Cabo cabana during a global strategy offsite. Spoiler alert: not a lot of strategy happened. Unless you count repositioning cushions and reheating the jacuzzi. With corporate-branded robes, no less.
These scandals don’t just happen in startups with frat-house vibes. They unfold in Fortune 100 headquarters with two floors of HR and surveillance-grade swipe cards. They happen at companies with ethics committees and ESG committees—often led by the very people creating the PowerPoint deck titled “Doing the Right Thing.”
Take the company whose head of Legal Affairs had a torrid affair with the Chief Compliance Officer—right before launching a global "Trust & Transparency" campaign. Or the private equity titan who mandated mandatory workplace harassment training... while he was under investigation for flying a "consultant" to Davos in his Gulfstream. (She billed five hours. They were in the air for ten. Jet lag and ethics both took the red-eye).
And let’s not forget the infamous all-hands meeting where the CEO stood up to say, “We take these allegations very seriously.” Minutes after, he was seen cozying up to the same VP of Communications who helped him draft the speech. She was literally typing while sitting in his lap. That’s vertical integration, folks—with direct reporting and direct lap access.
You want to know what really undermines an organization? It’s not bad earnings. It’s not even a rogue tweet. It’s when leaders behave like rules are for the little people. When they weaponize policy while they weaponize their libido. When they demand discretion from others while swapping keycards with direct reports in conference hotel bars.
It’s all fun and games until the jumbotron catches them—or worse, the CFO does. And once it hits the inboxes and the Slack channels, it’s game over. Especially when the intern’s burner TikTok hits 2.3 million views before legal even drafts the press release.
No one wants to report to a manager who starts every diversity training with “Let me tell you what real inclusion looks like…” and ends it with a W-2 for their mistress. No one trusts a “no fraternization” policy enforced by someone who’s dating the entire marketing department. Alphabetically.
Corporate hypocrisy is no longer a dirty secret—it’s a meme. A Reddit thread. A TikTok exposé waiting to happen. And every intern with a smartphone is a potential whistleblower-influencer hybrid with receipts, hashtags, and 4K video.
So, the next time an exec hands you a 54-page employee code of conduct with a straight face, look a little closer. There’s probably a lipstick stain on page 37.
Now onward, Sports Fans - Cupid’s cubicle is still occupied.
Chapter VI: Your Crotch is Not a Strategic Advisor
It doesn’t have an MBA. It doesn’t read Harvard Business Review. It doesn’t understand governance, GAAP, fiduciary duty, or the psychological risks of opening that Slack message at 1 a.m. But somehow—somehow—it keeps getting invited to the boardroom, the offsite, and the afterparty. It shows up in spreadsheets as "human capital risk" but behaves more like a rogue algorithm fueled by lust and LaCroix. And it keeps blowing up careers with the quiet power of a biological hand grenade wearing a FitBit.
For all the committees we create—Audit, Compensation, ESG, Compliance—we still haven’t figured out how to create a Crotch Risk Subcommittee. That’s a shame, because your crotch is not a corporate asset. It’s a volatile, underregulated liability with a pulse, an agenda, and no sense of market timing. It doesn’t care about the strategic plan. It just wants dopamine, validation, and possibly a corner suite with a shared Peloton.
It all starts around age 13, give or take. That bewildering moment when you realize you’re no longer operating with one central command center—but two. One tucked neatly between your ears, and the other tucked a bit further south. The trouble? They rarely agree. One wants a future. The other wants friction. One is calculating P/E ratios. The other is calculating how long it’ll take to get from the office holiday party to the nearest supply closet.
And this divergence isn’t just for the fellas. Girls, you’re in this hormonal Hunger Games too. That moment in 8th grade when your frontal lobe was focused on honor roll, but your limbic system was busy swooning over the JV lacrosse goalie who couldn’t spell “defibrillator.” That moment never really ends. And if you’re LGBTQ+? Congratulations, the hormonal chaos just comes with a twist ending.
This is not a male-specific meltdown. Women have flung themselves headfirst into this pit of peril with just as much enthusiasm, cunning, and catastrophic timing. So have plenty of LGBTQ+ executives, public figures, nonprofit saints, crypto-bros, TikTok-famous founders, and even a few cloistered monks who forgot to update their firewall.
The organ in question may differ, but the outcomes? Predictably tragicomic.
Remember that CIO who ghosted a $40 million M&A deal because her new girlfriend—hired straight from the supply chain team—was feeling neglected and started leaking emails? Or the female startup founder who called her affair with a VC "synergy-driven networking"—right until his wife found the brand deck titled "Positioning: On Top." Or the same-sex couple who turned a workplace DEI roundtable into a literal round bed at Davos? (Their ESG scores were off the charts—especially the "S”).
Your crotch doesn’t do risk analysis. It doesn’t forecast revenue. It doesn’t care about optics, share price, or your press release. It cares about friction, adrenaline, validation, and that heady surge of neurotransmitters so potent it could drown a neuroscience lab. Dopamine floods. Serotonin dives. Oxytocin floods. The Testosterone sirens wail, and the Norepinephrine explodes like an HR-mandated Fourth of July.
You stop seeing your assistant as someone who can fix your calendar and start thinking they’re your twin flame with an MBA. The executive cortex shuts down. You start planning offsites to Napa. You change their title to "Chief of Staff"—unironically. You start quoting Rumi in Slack threads. You start investing in "couples coaching" through the company EAP.
And before you know it, your board’s investigating, your shareholders are tweeting, and you’ve got an HR crisis being live-tweeted from a burner account named @BoardroomBooty.
Still think your crotch belongs on the strategic planning committee?
I’ve seen it all. I once had a CEO call me to reschedule a board meeting because he “needed space to reflect.” Turns out he was reflecting on whether to leave his wife of 30 years for the Head of Diversity Initiatives he met at a leadership retreat in Sedona. Spoiler: she left him—after she found out he didn’t include her in his estate plan and still shared a Netflix account with his ex.
Another exec I advised broke off a merger because his executive assistant—whom he met three weeks earlier at a tech conference—told him she had a bad dream about the synergies. That’s not governance. That’s libidinal lunacy with a keynote badge and a corporate AmEx.
In boardrooms, we talk a lot about tail risk. What we don’t talk about is crotch risk—the tail risk that wags the entire C-suite.
You want to stay off the front page? Keep your organ out of org charts. You want to stay employed? Stop texting your assistant at 2:07 a.m. “just to see if she’s okay.”
And if you ever find yourself about to let your midsection make a major strategic decision, take a breath, take a walk, and repeat after me:
"My crotch is not a strategic advisor".
Because once it is, the next press release won’t be about earnings. It’ll be about ethics. Or the lack thereof. Or worse—it’ll be accompanied by a blurry photo taken through a hotel peephole.
Chapter VII: Churches, Choirboys, and Coverups
Let’s not pretend that all the corporate filth is confined to boardrooms and executive suites. Some of history’s most egregious abuses of power—and pelvis—have worn robes instead of suits and wielded incense instead of spreadsheets. Religion, the self-appointed global HR department for millennia, has arguably been the longest-running scandal factory in human history.
The Catholic Church? The OG in public sanctimony, private depravity. Centuries of sexual abuse allegations, hush money payouts, and predator-relocation programs that make corporate “reorgs” look amateur. Bishops shuffled like cards. Priests reassigned like Uber drivers changing zip codes. The Vatican called it pastoral discretion. The rest of us called it institutionalized predation.
But let’s not stop there. No need to excommunicate only the Catholics.
Protestants? Oh, bless their hearts. You’ve got megachurch pastors flying private jets while preaching purity. Remember Ted Haggard? Weekly sermons on family values, nightly visits to a male escort—and a suitcase full of meth for good measure. Jesus wept—and the DEA rolled in.
Evangelicals? Extra credit for hypocrisy. Purity rings in public, pool boys in private. Jimmy Swaggart? Weeping on national TV over a "moral failing" (read: prostitutes). Jerry Falwell Jr.? In hot water after reports that his wife had an ongoing affair with a pool attendant—with his blessing. When your faith-based leadership starts sounding like a canceled Bravo series, you’ve lost the moral high ground.
Jewish scandals? Mazel tov! Turns out even Torah scholars can’t resist temptation. In Brooklyn, entire ultra-Orthodox communities have faced accusations of systematically silencing victims and protecting abusers. The Talmud may be sacred, but apparently, so are nondisclosure agreements.
Islamic leaders? From polygamy rationalized via scripture to mullahs abusing young students in madrassas across Southeast Asia, the ummah is not immune. Clerics caught with secret wives, hidden wealth, and a shocking fluency in modern hotel check-in procedures.
Hinduism? Don’t let the saffron fool you. Some gurus have turned ashrams into harems. Case in point: Swami Premananda, convicted of multiple rapes and a murder. So much for inner peace.
Buddhism? Oh yes, even those serene monks chanting in the mountains have occasionally swapped enlightenment for exploitation. Thai temples raided for money laundering, Japanese Zen masters with a penchant for geisha “spiritual counseling,” and tantric masters who insisted orgasm was the path to Nirvana—for their disciples, repeatedly.
Wiccans? Even the new-age crowd gets freaky. “Consent and intention” may be core values, but there’s a reason their Beltane festivals look like rejected Coachella sex tents. Broomsticks, indeed.
Scientology? No gods needed—just a billionaire cult with a legal department. Forced marriages, coerced abortions, and Cruise-controlled coercion. Praise Xenu.
Nepalese shamans? That gamelan bell you hear? It’s not just calling spirits—it’s covering up for that tantric priest who got caught with four wives, three mistresses, and a distinctly non-spiritual OnlyFans account.
The throughline here isn’t faith—it’s fraud. Hypocrisy wrapped in holy symbols. Genuflecting with one hand, groping with the other. From pews to prayer mats, pulpits to pagodas, we’ve watched humanity’s holiest play the dirtiest.
Moral of the story? No robe, collar, crystal, crucifix, or chakra bead absolves you from the consequences of letting your crotch write your commandments.
Religion may save souls, but it sure doesn’t save NDAs. And when the divine directive becomes "Do as I say, not as I unzip," well, friends, that’s not salvation. That’s sacrilege with a staff meeting.
In God We Trust. Everyone else—keep your hands in the air where we can see 'em.
Chapter VIII: Fidelity, Schmidelity – Global Cheating and the Gospel of Hypocrisy
Let’s get one thing straight: nobody—nobody—cheats better than the United States. We’re number one, baby! Not just in GDP, carbon emissions, or reality TV exports, but in the Olympic sport of infidelity. According to data from World Population Review, a glorious 71% of Americans who admit to cheating do so with—wait for it—an ex. That’s right - We don’t just screw around - we recycle.
But here’s the kicker: according to the very same Americans, 84% believe that cheating is morally unacceptable. So, what does that mean? It means we’re a nation of sanctimonious horndogs with excellent PR firms. We judge others for doing exactly what we’re doing… usually in the backseat of an SUV we claimed was for the kids.
And the U.S. isn’t alone in this bed of hypocrisy. Let’s take a globetrotting tour, shall we?:
And yet, here comes the hilarity: countries like Turkey, Indonesia, and Palestine boast that a staggering 94% of their populations believe cheating is immoral. Meanwhile, underground stats and regional gossip say otherwise. If the hypocrisy had a carbon footprint, Greta Thunberg would be picketing every house of worship east of Istanbul.
Let’s not forget Canada (36% cheaters, 76% moralists), Australia (44% cheaters, 79% tut-tutters), and Spain, Greece, Mexico, and Argentina all hovering in that sweet spot of “do as I say, not as I unzip.” The numbers practically beg for their own Netflix docuseries: "Infidelity: The Global Gyration."
Oh, and for you stat nerds and moral philosophers: when people cheat with an ex, that’s not romance—it’s logistical laziness. When it’s a friend, that’s just poor boundaries. And when it’s a stranger, well, at least you’re consistent. And possibly hygienic.
But here’s the dirty little global truth: it’s not the cheating that unravels empires—it’s the hypocrisy. The world screams about values while whispering dirty nothings at the minibar.
So next time someone tells you they “would never,” just smile, nod, and ask for the Wi-Fi password. Chances are their browser history already told the real story.
Welcome to Planet Infidelity: home of the judgmental cheater, powered by denial, and brought to you by the fine folks who gave us both the Kama Sutra and corporate HR.
Chapter IX: When It Can Work (Yes, Really)
After eight chapters of crotch-driven chaos, NDA-shredding scandals, boardroom bacchanalia, global hypocrisies, executive pants-downs, ecclesiastical orgies, HR horror shows, and one very confused streetwalker who turned out to be Officer Chuck in stilettos—you’d be forgiven for thinking love in the workplace is about as advisable as licking a spark plug in a thunderstorm.
But here’s the twist: sometimes, just sometimes, it actually works.
It makes sense, doesn’t it? We spend most of our waking hours at work—dodging Zoom invites, sipping bad coffee, exchanging glances over shared grief during all-hands meetings. It’s inevitable that connections form. Real ones. Between equals. Not the scandalous soap-opera flings of bad judgment and worse timing—but genuine, respectful, grown-up relationships born from shared values and not just shared Slack channels.
And yes, there are examples.
Barack and Michelle Obama met when she was assigned to mentor him at a law firm. We all know how that turned out. Bill and Melinda Gates—yes, before the exit strategy and all the Epstein eyebrow-raises—met at Microsoft. Anne Wojcicki and Sergey Brin (Google co-founder) had a long-term relationship after years of intersecting careers in tech and health. Patrick Whitesell and Lauren Sanchez dated in the same circles before Bezos hit "launch sequence." Mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla Chan met in line for the bathroom at a Harvard party and navigated Facebook’s explosive rise side by side. Sheryl Sandberg and Dave Goldberg (SurveyMonkey) were a Silicon Valley powerhouse couple who supported each other’s careers to legendary effect.
Then there are the behind-the-scenes success stories. The nurse and the trauma surgeon who fell in love in the ER waiting room and now co-run a health nonprofit. The product manager and UX designer who stayed late arguing about font sizes and are now married with a baby named Helvetica. The flight attendant and pilot who met on a long-haul route to Tokyo and now co-own a wine bar in Sonoma. Love—when treated with respect—can sneak up in surprising ways.
When it works, it’s because:
Because love may be eternal, but your job is a quarterly earnings call away from being very, very mortal.
The most resilient workplace relationships are forged by couples who say: “You’re worth more than my LinkedIn headline.” They adapt. They evolve. They make career decisions with the clarity of lovers who’ve seen what happens when romance stays in the shadows too long.
The secret sauce? Grown-up energy.
To make it work, you need transparency, maturity, and at least one awkward conversation with HR where someone uses the phrase “power dynamic” without irony.
That’s not a red flag. That’s just Tuesday in love and leadership.
Chapter X: The Spouse, the Kids, the Family, the Friends, the Neighbors, the Investors, and the Fallout We Never See
Behind the mushroom cloud of every executive affair is a cratered home. A devastated spouse. Confused children. A mortgage in limbo. And a thousand middle managers trying to figure out how to fire half a company without using the word “restructure.”
But let’s go deeper. Because beneath the PowerPoint-approved apology and hastily drafted “new chapter” press release is a debris field that no quarterly report will ever measure.
This isn’t just gossip. It’s harm. It’s human wreckage with bonuses attached. One ill-timed hotel swipe can unravel not just a marriage, but an entire ecosystem:
The devastated spouse becomes collateral damage. The kids? Silent casualties in the war of dad’s libido versus mom’s LinkedIn dignity. They learn faster than shareholders. The house goes on Zillow. The family therapist gets booked solid. And the golden retriever? He's just trying to figure out who’s still on kibble duty.
The Friends? They divide like cells. Some go full Team Spouse. Others mysteriously disappear into Switzerland-level neutrality. One friend starts dating the affair partner within 10 business days. There’s always one. Another takes the kids to Disneyland just to prove they still believe in magic, while quietly texting the neighborhood group chat like it’s a classified hotline.
The Neighbors? Suddenly everyone’s pulling weeds just a little closer to the mailbox. One couple brings over banana bread with that tight-lipped “We’re not judging” smile. Another files an HOA complaint because the lawn hasn’t been edged since the emotional apocalypse. And then there’s that one neighbor who installs a Ring camera—“for safety,” but somehow it’s always aimed at the driveway of scandal.
The Investors? They don’t care about the tears—until the stock tanks. Then they care very much. Expect analyst calls with phrases like “executive continuity risk” and “sudden exposure to reputational contagion.” Translation: Did your crotch just blow up our quarterly guidance? Their response falls somewhere between a shareholder lawsuit and a wellness webinar.
The Private Equity guys? They saw it coming, but hoped it would wait until after the recap.
The Venture Capitalists? Already rewriting the deck to make it look like this was part of the succession plan all along. Bonus points if they reposition the CEO’s ouster as “a courageous pivot toward values-based leadership.”
Meanwhile, in corporate HQ, damage control goes industrial:
You can almost hear the buzzwords choking on their own irony.
But the hardest fallout? It’s not just the scorched marriage, the jobless assistant, or the shell-shocked interns. It’s the betrayal of a belief: that character still matters. That power doesn’t always corrupt. That leadership doesn’t have to unzip itself into disaster.
And no one talks about the cost to the business of the scandal:
The joke may be on Page Six, but the punch lands on Main Street.
Because the real fallout isn’t measured in stock price drops—it’s measured in trust. Trust that takes years to build and seconds to shatter. Trust that won’t appear in proxy statements or ESG scorecards, but that bleeds into every decision, every headline, every exit interview.
For every affair that lights up the tabloids, there’s a quiet implosion happening just outside frame—one that HR doesn’t log, legal doesn’t bill, and leadership never truly recovers from.
Because when you play Jenga with your personal life at the top of a Fortune 500, the pieces don’t just fall on you. They land on everyone who ever believed you were better. And some of them—your kids, your partner, your board—may never stand upright again.
Chapter XI – What Would Frank Do?
Let’s say your hormones have detonated your judgment, your Slack DMs could double as erotica, and your “performance reviews” now include scented candles and a Spotify playlist called “Synergy & Seduction.” Don’t panic – just channel your inner Frank.
This isn’t about shame—it’s about strategy. And governance. And not incinerating your equity grants for a 3 a.m. tryst with someone who thinks Sarbanes-Oxley is a brand of essential oils.
Here’s your emergency protocol, straight from the Veritas bunker:
And remember: if your zipper is smarter than your strategy, you shouldn't be leading anything but a conga line of legal depositions and regret-shaped severance packages. Or possibly a startup with a valuation that includes the words “pre-revenue,” “pre-litigation,” and “post-dignity.”
But Frank, what if we’re in love?
Wonderful. Happy for you. Simple. - Go work somewhere else. Real love can survive a commute, a new job, and even an HR-mandated NDA. But your career might not survive another all-hands Zoom with post-coital eye contact and a rogue Slack screenshot floating through investor relations.
Enter: The Glassnerian Theorems™
So, before your next 'mentoring lunch' turns into a line item on the SEC’s whistleblower portal, ask yourself:
What would Frank do?
He’d look you dead in the eye and say:
“Help me to understand.”
And then he’d sip his espresso while watching you squirm like a CFO at a tax audit.
And that, dear Sports Fans, is how you lead—cleanly, smartly, and with your belt buckled and your credibility intact.
Chapter XII – The Veritas Way
You’ve made it through ten chapters of HR horror, hormone hijinks, and the kind of boardroom scandals that would make Machiavelli blush. So now what? Redemption, reinvention—and maybe a little revenge on your former self. This is not about being perfect. This is about being prepared, principled, and just self-aware enough not to bring down a billion-dollar enterprise over brunch fondling.
Welcome to The Veritas Way—a living, breathing code of conduct for leaders who want to avoid ending up in a deposition, a Netflix documentary, or the world’s saddest LinkedIn update.
And above all:
If it feels risky, wrong, or just a little too exhilarating for a Monday morning in Procurement—walk away.
Because at Veritas, we don’t just consult on governance. We live it. With brains on. Pants up. And coffee strong.
Epilogue – From Kiss Cam to Catastrophe
They always think no one will notice. They always think the rules don’t apply. And they always think that private moment—on the rooftop, in the breakroom, in that Dubai hotel suite—is somehow protected from the public eye in an age of HD surveillance, jilted spouses, and interns with unlimited iCloud storage.
Spoiler alert: It’s not.
Now they’re unemployed, memed, and immortalized in HR webinars titled “Red Flags, Red Faces, and Redundancies.” Somewhere, their ex-spouses are bingeing self-help podcasts, their kids are deleting Instagram, and their former employees are timing severance packages like they’re launching SpaceX payloads.
And let’s not forget the investors—the poor souls who watched their portfolio evaporate faster than a Snapchat affair confession. Or the neighbors, who now get subpoenaed for deposition cameos. Or the friends, who used to be brunch buddies and are now blocking your number like it's a phishing scam.
Corporate love? It's not a rom-com. It’s a Tarantino remake of Fatal Attraction with a dash of Succession, a sprinkle of America’s Dumbest Executives, and the comedic sensibilities of a Jerry Seinfeld bit gone horribly wrong: “What’s the deal with sleeping with your subordinate and destroying shareholder value? Is that on the onboarding form?”
Take Astronomer, the star-crossed startup where the CEO-CHRO chemistry wasn’t just bad optics—it was thermonuclear. What started as “transformational leadership” quickly turned into SEC scrutiny, an internal audit that read like a Dateline episode, and a boardroom freakout worthy of Greek tragedy. The CHRO allegedly “influenced promotions,” the CEO apparently “forgot” the chain of command, and both parties claimed it was all “consensual” as the lawyers installed extra phone lines.
Wall Street didn’t even get a chance to weigh in—Astronomer isn’t public. But if they were? The stock chart would look like it dove off the high board with bricks in its pockets, waving at the auditors on the way down.
Employees called it Tuesday. And the board? They called an emergency session—at 2 a.m.—because nothing says fiduciary oversight like trying to clean up an HR dumpster fire before the sun’s up and the VCs log into Bloomberg.
Let’s be clear: this isn’t about prudishness. This is about governance. About the cost of conflating charisma with character, and libido with leadership. About what happens when grown adults, given corner offices and fiduciary duties, suddenly start acting like horny undergrads in a ‘90s teen movie.
So next time you feel that pulse-pounding office romance brewing over the shared LaCroix fridge, ask yourself:
Are you writing your meet-cute… or your memoir from prison?
Because when it all comes crashing down—and it always does—you’re not just breaking hearts. You’re breaking companies, families, careers, pension funds, shareholder value, and the remaining strands of your therapist’s sanity.
And remember, Sports Fans: You may think you’re starring in a love story.
But you’re probably just a punchline in someone else’s PowerPoint.
End Scene. Cue the sad trombone.
FBG
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PS: If this piece made you laugh, nod in agreement, or mutter “he’s talking about me behind my back, isn’t he?”—I’d love to hear from you. Drop me a line at fglassner@veritasecc.com. I personally read and reply to every message—no assistants, no AI, just me (usually with a strong espresso in hand). Whether you’re a board member, CEO, CFO, burned-out executive, investment banker, activist shareholder, client, consultant, lawyer, accountant, ex-wife, one of my beloved twin sons, AI Bot, or just a fellow traveler in the great corporate circus, I welcome the conversation.
Thanks!