The Starved Empire
The absolute silence of the Floor Twenty-Six executive boardroom was not the tranquil silence of peace; it was the suffocating, heavy silence of a submarine slowly being crushed by the immense pressure of the ocean depth.
The room itself was a monument to the Vance family’s multi-generational wealth. The long, oval conference table was carved from a single slab of imported Brazilian rosewood, polished to a mirror shine that reflected the overcast, gray sky looming beyond the floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows. The chairs were upholstered in hand-stitched Italian leather. The air smelled faintly of expensive citrus polish, aged paper, and the bitter, metallic tang of pure corporate desperation.
Elara Vance sat at the head of the table. Her posture was rigidly perfect,
