Lucian
The conference room smelled faintly of cedar polish and roasted Arabica. Sunlight flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the metallic logo embossed on the glass partition: Vance Global Holdings. I sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled beneath my chin as my PR director, Gina, flicked through slides on the screen.
“…public sympathy is trending moderately in your favour,” she was saying, tapping her stylus against a line graph. “But to ensure the custody filing doesn’t backfire, we need to maintain the narrative that you’re stepping in for Max’s welfare, not out of vindictiveness.”
“Obviously,” I murmured, flicking my gaze to her. Her lipstick was the same glossy plum as her nails, immaculate and distracting. “How do we do that without overtly smearing E
