Victor Sinclair’s cheeks burned as if he had been physically slapped. The heat radiating from his face wasn’t just from the humidity of the Lakeport afternoon; it was the sting of public humiliation. He looked at Ambrose Ward, and for a fleeting second, his eyes flashed with a hatred so pure it bypassed professional decorum entirely.
In Victor’s mind, the hierarchy was sacred. He was the Lead, the one holding the gavel. Ambrose was merely the Deputy Lead, a subordinate whose only job was to facilitate Victor’s vision. Yet, here was this "young Turk," this Governor’s Cadet, standing in the middle of a hallway and systematically dismantling Victor’s authority in front of a local official.
Who does he think he is? Victor screamed internally. He knew the answer, of course, and that was what
