The silence that followed Ace Kane’s seventy-million-dollar bid was not merely a lack of noise; it was a heavy, suffocating vacuum. In the front row, Marshal Kane felt a cold, oily sweat beginning to saturate the collar of his expensive white blazer. Just moments ago, driven by a desperate need to reclaim his standing in front of Suzy, he had arrogantely pledged an additional ten million dollars as a donation to the city’s welfare fund should Ace win. It had been a tactical gamble, a way to paint Ace as a fraudulent disruptor while positioning himself as the ultimate benefactor.
But now, as the reality of the situation settled into his bones, Marshal felt a sharp, visceral ache in his chest—the kind of "flesh-pain" only felt by those who worship at the altar of their own bank accounts. If
