POV: Xavier
The air in the executive suite tasted of ozone and impending storm. Xavier sat through a budget review, the numbers on the screen a blur of meaningless digits. His father presided from the head of the table, his demeanor one of granite calm, but Xavier had learned to read the micro-tensions: the too-precise tap of a Montblanc pen against the polished teak, the slight narrowing of the eyes when Charlotte Thorne presented her quarterly PR report. The letter Isabella had found—and left untouched—had been a grenade with the pin quietly reinserted. But Alistair Hale was not a man who left live ordnance lying around. He would either defuse it or make it explode in his enemy’s hand.
Since the discovery, a new, more stringent protocol had been implemented for the estate archives. Isa
