The boardroom of Blackwood Enterprises was silent, except for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock mounted on the far wall. The air inside the room felt thick, like the collective breath of the people seated at the long, polished table had somehow condensed into something tangible—something heavy.
Julian Blackwood sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable, his fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of untouched scotch. He looked composed. Controlled. But beneath the surface, he was a coiled wire—waiting, calculating, ready to snap at the first sign of weakness.
Seated across from him, Veronique Moreau exuded effortless confidence. She was dressed in a pristine ivory suit, the diamonds on her wrist catching the low evening light. She reclined slightly in her chair, he
