My office was a fortress of order.
Mahogany desk polished to a mirror shine, glass wall framing Chicago’s skyline in cold blues and steel. Nothing out of place. Just as I demanded. I sat behind the desk in a Tom Ford suit, black and immaculate. The tie was pulled high and tight, the cut sharp enough to slice. Not a single strand of my dark hair strayed out of place.
Perfection... on the surface.
The only fracture was in my hands. As the board droned on about quarterly projections and Vincent Hale circling our operations like a vulture, I leaned back in my chair, long fingers flexing one by one until each knuckle cracked in a steady rhythm.
“Hale has been probing your supply margins,” one director said nervously. “He’s been meeting with unions, talking buyouts. If he gains leverage...”
