Monday Morning. 7:45 AM...
"He's here."
The tension began with a whisper—then came the darting glances, and finally, silence.
Shoes were straightened. Ties were adjusted. Half-sipped coffees were quietly abandoned in a panic.
The lobby of AML Dynamics, once buzzing with conversations and hurried footsteps, froze into a tense tableau.
Even the potted plants lining the marble walls seemed to stand at attention as the glass doors slid open.
Nathaniel stepped in—tall, composed, and utterly unnerving.
Clad in a charcoal grey suit so sharp it could slice egos, he moved with cold precision, each step a deliberate strike on the marble floor.
His gaze swept across the lobby—ice-cold and expressionless.
Everyone stiffened under it. Breaths were held and no one dared to move.
On his left-hand side was the goddess herself, looking elegant and pristine in her immaculate white, well-fitted pant suit and her flaming red hair tucked neatly in a bun.
With an arctic stare and the composure of a trained assassin, no one dared to look in her direction.
On his right-hand side was the familiar and friendly Miles Edison, the regional manager, who now looked more like a shadow following orders than a man of authority.
Not a single word was exchanged–no greeting, no smiles.
Just the rhythmic clack of footsteps and the soft whoosh of the private elevator doors opening—then closing again behind them.
Only after the elevator ascended did the room collectively exhale.
And then—the gossip exploded like gas to flame.
"I heard he fired an entire department in Cape Vonn… mid-lunch," someone muttered.
"They say if your phone rings during his meetings, he doesn't yell—he just stares until you tender your resignation," whispered another.
"Did you see the way he looked at us?" a new receptionist asked, voice trembling. "For a second, I thought we'd all just… vaporize."
"We could've," came a reply, hushed and solemn. "I heard he spits fire when provoked."
"What? Literal or metaphorical?" someone asked, eyebrows rising.
"Does it matter?" the first girl muttered. "Either way, someone's getting scorched. And guess who's sitting on the burner today?"
"The Mendozas," another chimed in. "Especially after that disaster at the RAD Gala…"
"What is going on here?"
A sharp, commanding voice tore through the buzz like a blade.
Heads snapped backwards as the new receptionist supervisor—a no-nonsense woman in her late thirties—stepped out from behind the desk, fire in her eyes.
"Do you think this is a radio station?"
"No, ma'am..."
"Back to work. Now. Or I'll make sure your next conversation is with the HR department—about unemployment."
The room fell silent in an instant.
Monitors flicked back on. Calls were answered. Fingers flew across keyboards and everyone got busy.
-
-
Meanwhile, the tension had only begun on the thirteenth floor.
The boardroom—once the proud sanctuary of the Mendoza legacy—now felt more like a courtroom.
And today, the verdict was near–one that could shatter hopes and ruin reputation.
Clad in their polished best, board members and shareholders sat in stiff anticipation, awaiting the arrival of the new chairman's representative.
Whispers had long given way to uneasy silence, broken only by the occasional shifting of expensive fabric against leather.
Two seats at the head of the table sat ominously vacant—one for the chairman, the other for the regional managing director.
Every other seat was occupied. Every smile was forced, and every breath was tight with speculation.
Only a handful of extended Mendoza relatives—naïve and untested—carried a flicker of excitement.
The rest were poised, marked with concealed rising dread.
Five minutes in, the board secretary—a composed young woman with eyes too sharp for her age—rose from her seat.
"Ladies and gentlemen... the chairman's representative has arrived."
The hush that followed was near-sacred. Chairs creaked as nervous bodies shot to their feet.
As Nathaniel, closely accompanied by Hiraya and Miles stepped in, a coldness swept in with them, like a storm cloaked in Armani.
Eyes lowered, spines stiffened and breaths stalled as Nathaniel led with an unreadable calm, his gaze sharp as steel.
Hiraya walked behind him with quiet menace wrapped in elegance.
She was a vision—fiery red hair, striking features—but colder than marble, Carmelita's mirror image.
And yet... something was wrong–unspoken and unmistakable.
Alfonso, the once unshakable patriarch, nearly buckled under the weight of it.
The woman before him bore the face of his long-dead granddaughter-in-law. The same eyes. Almost the same grace. But not the same aura.
The old Carmelita was soft-natured and endearing. This new Carmelita was cold, slightly rigid and a threat.
"Seat," Nathaniel's voice rang out—cold, clipped, and commandingly emotionless. His eyes swept across the room like a predator scanning for weakness.
Hiraya moved into action, placing his laptop and a sleek black folder before him. Her lips curved slightly when she noticed—no seat had been reserved for her.
Of course. Just an assistant. A nobody in their eyes.
If only they knew.
She caught Nathaniel's eye. A single glance and a silent order was exchanged.
Then—
"You," Nathaniel pointed toward Luzon Mendoza, his tone laced with disdain.
Luzon looked up, startled. "Y–yes, sir?"
"Make room for my assistant."
A ripple of shock swept the room. Silent gasps accompanied by darting glances.
No one moved to challenge the blatant power play—even as it humiliated the acting CEO before his own blood.
Luzon stumbled upright, swallowing his pride. "O–of course... yes, sir." He forced a smile that barely reached his trembling lips.
Hiraya glided into the seat, brushing past his wife and daughters with a sly smirk, dancing at the corner of her lips.
Luzon turned desperately to his son. "Julio..."
"Really?" Julio groaned under his breath, still visibly distracted by Hiraya.
"Why me?" He wanted to say as his eyes flitted toward his sisters, then the junior board members.
"Mr. Mendoza," Nathaniel's voice cut through like ice, "you are disrupting this meeting. Find a seat—or leave."
"Y–yes, sir." Luzon hissed under his breath, sending a deadly glare at Julio, who finally vacated his seat with reluctant obedience. The secretary rushed out to fetch another chair.
And at last, silence.
Nathaniel leaned forward, his voice low and measured:
"Excellence... is never an accident. It is the result of sincere effort, intelligent direction, skilful execution, and the courage to see obstacles as opportunities."
He paused, his gaze shifting slowly—first to Alfonso... then to Luzon.
"For six months, my boss—Ray Bardin—has invested billions into this company. Ray revived a crumbling empire, transformed it into a brand the market now watches with respect. You were all given freedom, resources, and time. So I ask..."
He fixed his stare on Luzon.
"What have you done with that freedom?"
Luzon's throat bobbed. He reached for his tie, suddenly too tight around his neck.
Nathaniel didn't wait.
"I'll tell you."
And with that, he opened the black folder. Pages rustled softly—but the silence that followed was deafening.
Everyone held their breath.
Because they knew.
The reckoning had begun.