The Queen Behind the Curtain
De Dominicis Group.
President's Office.
Outside, the city stretched wide beneath glass walls that reached high into the air. Sunlight poured in early, sweeping over smooth stone underfoot, then rising slowly up the heavy grain of a broad desk built for long hours.
Bianca De Dominicis took her seat behind it, legs arranged with quiet grace. One stretched long, laid smoothly across the second.
Wind tugged at the loose threads of her deep-red hair, spilling past her shoulders in soft waves. Sunlight threaded through it, pulling out hints of amber where it touched. One strand curled near a cheekbone, sharp as cut stone. She held the paper still, gaze steady, those red irises scanning every line without rush.
