The boardroom is cold enough to sting the skin. A calculated chill—one designed to keep tempers sharp and minds awake. The long obsidian table reflects every face like a dark, distorted mirror. Twelve of the most ruthless power players in the underground world sit spaced around it, silent, watchful, prepared to tear each other apart if a single advantage presented itself.
But today, none of them are the center of gravity.
Today, all their eyes are fixed on her.
Emily stands at the head of the table, shoulders square, spine straight, chin lifted with the grace of someone who has survived fire and come out forged, not broken. She wears no crown, no explicit symbol of power, just a sleek black suit cinched at the waist—and the bracelet on her wrist, discreetly locked, a reminder of chains she escaped but keeps visible like a blade disguised as jewelry.
Behind her, slightly to the right, stands Alexander.
Not speaking.
Not dominating.
