The Plexus anniversary banners looked like a hundred hollow smiles pasted across the ballroom. Ethan had signed off on the color palette months ago—deep cobalt, champagne gold—tones that said legacy, stability, vision. Now the lights bit at his eyes. A violin quartet sawed politely from the dais. Vivian's hand rested in the crook of his arm with a weight that felt performative and light at once.
“Your speech," she murmured, tilting the card toward him. “You left it on the table."
“I remember it." His voice came out flat. On the card, bullet points marched: innovation, pipeline, early access program. The words had become a language he could speak while asleep. Awake, they sounded like a defense brief.
They had barely crossed the foyer when his assistant threaded through the crowd with a
