The word “filed” was a gunshot in the silent room. It wasn’t an accusation anymore; it was a process, a mechanism of destruction already in motion. The immediate effect was a subtle shift in the room's energy, a collective intake of breath from the few who remained. The polite fiction of a business pitch had been vaporized, leaving behind the raw, ugly truth of a hostile takeover of reality itself.
Leo stood there, a statue carved from ash. But it was Chloe who moved first. Her survival instincts, honed in a world where alliances were currency and bad associations were debt, were razor-sharp. She turned to Leo, her expression not of a heartbroken fiancée, but of a strategist cutting a gangrenous limb.
“Leo,” she said, her voice dangerously low and steady. “What is she talking about? A ‘f
