The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, and Richard Hughes stepped into the hushed hallway of his corporate floor as if returning to a battlefield. Two security personnel trailed him discreetly, their presence quiet but unmistakable. Cameras outside had swarmed earlier, hungry for a glimpse of the “fallen chairman,” but inside these walls the only witness was the sterile scent of expensive polish.
He paused at his assistant’s desk. “How’s the media pulse?” he asked without looking up.
Her fingers hovered over the tablet. “Divided. Heated. Ideal for a fresh narrative… if you choose to push one.”
Richard didn’t answer. His gaze had drifted beyond her, landing on the framed photo on her shelf—a younger Brandon, six years old, cheeks round, eyes bright, holding a plastic trophy with
