Even Serena Frost, watching from her seat with a carefully neutral expression, felt heat rising beneath her collar. Had she not known that today's real protagonist was Ambrose Ward, she might have leapt to her feet, torn the veil off every self-satisfied face in the room, and let the truth detonate like a grenade. It took genuine effort to remain seated, to keep her breathing even, to remind herself that the curtain had not yet risen on the act that mattered.
Victor Sinclair's complexion had gone the color of iron. He turned toward Director Quinn, his voice dropping to a frigid register. "Director Quinn, don't you think you've gone too far with this performance?"
What Quinn had just orchestrated was not a professional farewell or a quiet demotion. It was a public dissection of Ambrose Wa
