The room froze.

Every camera turned, every eye locked onto the source of that voice.

And then—he stepped into view.

Alexander Lucas.

Tall. Straight. Composed. Unrushed. The kind of presence that demanded attention without needing to raise a finger.

His suit—ruthlessly tailored, black as midnight—only amplified his authority. Not a single hair out of place, not a trace of hesitation in his measured steps. He walked with the quiet confidence of a man who had never needed permission to take control of any room he entered.

Reporters murmured underneath, the tension shifted, thickened, as if the very air recalibrated itself around him.

At the podium, Johny’s grip tightened.

Alexander didn’t...