(LANCE )
The penthouse conference room felt increasingly like a pressure chamber. Mid-morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, turning the marble floors into bright reflective pools and highlighting the sleek black ankle monitor on my leg as I shifted in my chair. Its soft, periodic chime marked another permitted movement within the strict boundaries of house arrest. The air carried the clean scent of lemon polish from the compliance team’s recent visit, the rich aroma of fresh coffee, and the subtle floral notes of Eliona’s tea as she sat beside me, her hand resting lightly on my knee beneath the table.
Ms. Reyes appeared on the large screen for the unscheduled emergency review, her expression tighter than usual. Two assistants flanked her, notepads ready. “Mr. Bistros, we’ve
