The VanceTech lobby, usually a bastion of austere corporate efficiency, was transformed into an impromptu runway. The air hissed as the automatic revolving doors parted to admit not a delegation, but a spectacle.
Fiona Sterling—the name alone was a shibboleth of old-world aristocratic power—stepped into the foyer. She was a woman who didn't walk; she presided. Clad in a bespoke suit that cost more than a mid-sized sedan, her silhouette was razor-sharp, her presence calculated to dominate. She carried the effortless arrogance of someone whose bank account had no ceiling and whose family tree was written in the foundation stones of the city.
She didn't glance at the receptionists. She didn't acknowledge the security staff. Her eyes, cool and piercing, scanned the lobby until they locked on
