The boardroom was chilled with that particular kind of silence: not from lack of conversation, but from tension so tightly strung, the air practically buzzed with it.
Avery Delaney adjusted his cufflinks as he entered, the click of his shoes punctuating the room like punctuation marks in a statement he hadn't made yet. He looked immaculate, every line of his slate-grey suit sharp enough to slice. Only someone who knew him well would see the way his jaw clenched, the too-careful way he moved his shoulder, as though shielding his heart.
He sat at the head of the long obsidian table, offered a smile—cordial, cool. "Good morning."
Ms. Carrow, silver-haired and perpetually scented like musk and power, cleared her throat. "We're glad to see you well, Mr. Emerson. Though, I must say, your recent hospital stay has raised some concerns… about long-term executive stability."
Translation: you're a liability.
