"She's gone," Victor stated, his voice devoid of pity, as Clara Dione's modest sedan disappeared into the maze of city traffic. "Fled the building through the back entrance. The media will tear her apart."
"Let them," I replied, my voice steady, my gaze fixed on the receding chaos of journalists and flashing cameras. My personal battle is finished. Now, the real war begins. The satisfaction was cold, precise, and absolute, not an explosive triumph, but the quiet click of a lock finally falling into place.
One day later, the air in the financial district felt unusually heavy, charged with the nervous energy of impending collapse. News of Marcus Thorne's sentencing had ripped through the markets, but it was the quiet rumour of Dione Infra's imminent insolvency that truly chilled the elite.
