The hallway outside Ivy’s executive suite was quiet in a way that felt intentional, a vacuum of sound designed to separate the chaos of the lobby from the clarity of the throne.
The soft, slate-gray carpet muted every footstep, absorbing the weight of the brothers as they approached. The lighting here was warmer, filtered through recessed fixtures that felt less public and far less polished than the dazzling displays downstairs. As Leo walked, he noticed the faint, sophisticated scent of lavender and clean, expensive bond paper—comforting, deliberate, and deeply nostalgic.
Ivy had always curated spaces the way some people curated their emotions: with a terrifying level of control, ensuring that every shadow and every scent served a specific purpose.
The heavy mahogany door stood closed,
