The silence in the opulent boardroom was a live thing, stretched taut, ready to snap. Zayn sat at the head of the polished mahogany table, a ghost in the seat once solely occupied by his father, Tuan Carter. His dark suit, impeccably tailored, seemed to absorb the light, making him a stark silhouette against the backdrop of stunned faces. His eyes, cold and unwavering, swept across the room, lingering just a fraction too long on each director before moving on. He noted the rigid posture of Director Thompson, the sweat beading on Director Miller’s forehead, the barely concealed fury etched onto Vanessa Carter’s exquisite features, and the panicked, impotent rage of Dylan, her son, beside her.
Tuan Carter, a man who had once exuded power and intimidation, now sagged in his chair two seats d
