Bound by the Alpha's Deadline

The will was to be read in the Executive Boardroom of Lyric Industries, a room that looked more like the heart of an empire than a simple office. The space was vast, stretching beneath a high ceiling layered with soft, recessed lights that cast a warm gold hue across the room. The walls were paneled with dark mahogany wood, polished so smoothly that the surface reflected every glint of light. A massive floor-to-ceiling window dominated the far end, offering a sweeping view of the city’s skyline — towers rising like silver pillars beneath a pale morning sun. At the center of the room sat a long, oval conference table, carved from black oak and glossy enough to reflect the faces of the men and women seated around it. Each chair was upholstered in charcoal leather, high-backed and imposing, arranged in perfect symmetry. The air smelled faintly of cedar and old money. Along one wall stood a row of locked glass cabinets filled with framed awards, glowing plaques, and aged photographs of the company’s founders. The largest portrait — the late Alpha Gregory Lyric — hung above them, his silver eyes painted with that familiar sharpness, seeming to watch over the room even in death. Subtle touches of luxury completed the space: a marble credenza holding crystal decanters, gold-trimmed wall sconces flickering softly, a plush, dark carpet that muffled every footstep. Despite the elegance, the atmosphere felt heavy — like the room itself understood the weight of the meeting. The board members sat in silence, their expressions unreadable, pens lined neatly in front of them, folders closed, awaiting the arrival of the heir.