The morning mist hung low over the private estate of the Volkskrant family, casting a silvery sheen on the manicured lawns and grand stone fountains. Inside the main dining room, the silence was heavy, broken only by the soft clinking of silver cutlery against fine porcelain.
Arthur sat at the head of the polished dark-wood table, dressed in a sharp black suit with his tie meticulously knotted. Across from him, Clara sat with her posture straight and poise undeniable, wearing a tailored cream-colored dress that accentuated her cool, aristocratic elegance. She gracefully spread butter over a piece of toast, entirely unfazed by the intense gaze her husband directed at her from behind his morning paper.
"You slept surprisingly well last night for someone who declared a corporate war yesterday afternoon," Arthur remarked, his deep voice cutting through the quiet room as he set his coffee cup down.
