The heavy obsidian desk dug painfully into Sarah's lower back.
Two massive corporate guards gripped her shoulders, pinning her in place. Her white blazer pressed hard against the cold, polished stone. Shattered glass covered the carpet from where the men had breached the doors minutes ago.
Tristan Frost stood on the other side of the desk. He didn't yell. He tapped a gold pen against a printed document.
"It's an Emergency Reauthorization Directive, Miss Quinn," Tristan said, his voice cold and professional. "You bypassed regional authority yesterday. Sign the transfer. Return the supply chain to my division."
"I operated within my legal authority as CEO," Sarah breathed, refusing to take the pen.
Tristan sighed. He adjusted his silk tie, looked at the guard holding Sarah's right arm,
