The dining hall of the Flynn estate was bathed in the oppressive glow of crystal chandeliers, casting sharp shadows across a table laden with expensive delicacies that none of the junior family members dared to touch until the matriarch spoke. At the head of the table sat Nanny Flynn, a woman of seventy whose face was a roadmap of cold ambition and calculated severity. Surrounding her were the grandsons, granddaughters, and sons-in-law of the Flynn family, each engaged in a desperate performance of corporate sycophancy.
"Grandmother, I’ve successfully secured the two-million-dollar supply contract with Elowen Company," one grandson announced, puffing out his chest as if he had conquered a small nation.
"And Grandmother," another chimed in, leaning forward with a fawning smile, "our joint
