Beneath the heavy, velvet-draped table of the VIP alcove, Elara’s hand shot out like a striking viper. Her manicured fingers clamped down hard onto my knee, her nails digging sharply through the cheap, stiff fabric of my gray suit. It was a silent, desperate, and furious command. Shut your mouth, Lucas, her widening crystal-clear eyes screamed at me. She had brought a shield to absorb the corporate blows, not a rogue weapon that would detonate in the middle of a high-stakes negotiation.
Across the frosted-glass table, Vivian Thorne blinked, momentarily thrown off balance by the sheer, unyielding resonance of my voice. The acquisition director lowered her vintage champagne flute, her heavily painted red lips parting in genuine surprise. Then, a slow, malicious, and entirely condescending s
