The alarm on Sloan Everheart’s phone went off at 5:14 in the morning, the way it had every weekday for the past three years.

At 6:02 PM, the main boardroom on the 41st floor was filled with anxious murmurings.

The remaining four independent board members, along with the legal council and the lead underwriters from JPMorgan, were sitting around the mahogany table.

"Where are they?" one of the independent directors asked, checking his watch. "Sloan is never late. And Corbett said he'd be here ten minutes ago."

"Maybe they couldn't reach an agreement," another muttered. "If Sloan doesn't show, the Cascade vote automatically defaults to Q1 next year."

Suddenly, the double frosted-glass doors of the boardroom swung open.

Sloan Everheart walked into the room.

Her hair was tied back in a neat, firm bun. Her black executive blazer was buttoned tight, hiding the small tear near the hem. Though her knee suffered a slight, almost imperceptible limp, her chin was held high, her eyes burning with an undisputed, absolute authority.

Beside her, holding her briefcase and standing like an immovable wall of iron, was Calder Knox.

The room went dead silent.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Sloan said, her voice ringing out like a silver bell through the quiet room. "I apologize for the short delay. We had a brief maintenance issue on the forty-second floor."

Before anyone could speak, the doors opened again.

Blaine Corbett, Trent Huxley, and Mason Reich stumbled into the room.

The transformation was horrific. Trent was clutching his swelling, bloody cheek with a paper towel, breathing in short, agonizing gasps. Mason was holding his ribs, leaning heavily against the doorframe, his face gray with shock.

And Blaine Corbett—the proud, silver-haired titan of industry—looked like a broken ghost. His suit was wrinkled, covered in dust from the hallway floor, his hair ruined, his eyes wide, hollow, and fixed in absolute terror on Calder Knox standing beside Sloan.

The board members gasped, jumping up from their chairs.

"My God! Blaine!" one director shouted. "What happened to you?! Were you mugged?!"

Blaine looked at the director, then slowly turned his eyes toward Calder.

Calder didn't say a word. He simply stood beside Sloan, his hands folded loosely in front of his white shirt, offering Blaine a subtle, barely perceptible tilt of his head.

Blaine swallowed hard, a visible shudder running through his entire frame.

"No..." Blaine choked out, his voice cracked and trembling. "We... we had an accident. In the elevator."

"An accident?" the legal counsel stammered, looking between the bleeding men and Sloan's immaculate posture. "Do you need medical attention?"

"We're fine!" Blaine nearly squeaked, stepping back from the table as if the air near Sloan were poisonous. "We... we just need to sign the paperwork."

Sloan pulled the Cascade Communications acquisition dossier from her briefcase and set it squarely in the center of the mahogany table.

"The motion before the board is the immediate authorization of the Cascade acquisition," Sloan declared, her voice cold, precise, and lethal. "Do I have a second?"

"Second!" Mason Reich yelled instantly from the door, terrified that any delay would bring Calder back into his personal space.

"All those in favor?" Sloan asked, looking directly into Blaine's hollow eyes.

Every single hand in the room went up instantly.

Blaine Corbett raised his hand so fast he nearly dislocated his own shoulder, his fingers trembling wildly in the air.

"Unanimous," Sloan stated calmly, signing her name on the final line with a bold black stroke. "The Cascade acquisition is approved. Now, regarding the corporate governance structure..."

Sloan leaned across the table, her blue eyes pinning Blaine to the floor.

"Mr. Corbett, Mr. Huxley, and Mr. Reich have submitted their immediate, unconditioned resignations from the board of Viront Technologies, effective thirty seconds ago. Isn't that correct, Blaine?"