The boardroom was silent in a way that felt unnatural, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Alyssa stood at the far end of the long glass table, her posture calm, almost relaxed. Only those who knew her well would notice the tension beneath the stillness—the way her fingers rested flat against the polished surface, the way her gaze never blinked.

Across from her sat Director Harold Whitman, one of the oldest and most respected figures in the company. His suit was immaculate, his silver hair perfectly combed. Yet a thin sheen of sweat glimmered on his forehead.

“You asked for this meeting urgently,” Harold said, forcing a...