The morning of the shareholders’ meeting arrived with the kind of oppressive, heavy humidity that usually preceded a violent thunderstorm. The Valerius Group headquarters, a glass-and-steel monolith that pierced the Oakhaven skyline, felt like a pressure cooker. Ares Thorne sat in the back of the armored sedan, his face a mask of carefully constructed lethargy. He was still playing the invalid—the "broken crown" of the Valerius household—but inside, his mind was a rapid-fire processor analyzing every potential outcome of the impending collision.
Clara sat beside him, her composure a fragile piece of art. Her suit was sharp enough to draw blood, and her expression was carefully curated to project the exhaustion of a woman who had been dragged through the mud of public scandal.
"They’re wa
