There’s a particular kind of silence that exists in corner offices.
The kind that hums behind double-paned glass and expensive furniture. That settles into imported mahogany desks and stainless steel paperweights like it belongs there. Like silence is its own currency, one I’ve gotten far too good at spending.
It was the kind of silence I usually welcomed.
Except today, it felt like a warning.
A waiting room for something I couldn’t name.
I sat behind my desk at SterlingTech’s headquarters, staring at the fire report Cassian sent for the fifth time. The PDF was still open, cold and factual. No photos. Just the sterile language of disaster mitigation.
Electrical fault.
Combustion point: Ground-level service panel.
Estimated damages: Total.
I knew what those words meant. I’d signed
