The marble gleam of Harmonfield Mantle Hall masked the savage undercurrent flooding its core. Beneath the glow of crystal chandeliers and cell phone flashes, something ancient stirred.
Not ceremony. Not politics.
Just war—condensed into one brutal contest.
At the center stood the black granite table, thick as a tombstone, bolted down like it was afraid of what was coming.
Two chairs.Two names. One crown.
Jack Parker sat on the left—silent, composed, a storm in human form.
Ryan Brooks slouched into the other chair, all cocky posture and forced swagger. His right knuckle was scabbed from the near-accident days ago, his jaw still tender where Jack’s presence had bruised his pride. Yet somehow, he smiled.
“You sure you want this smoke again?” Ryan leaned in, his voice gravel and venom.
