The morning fog clung to the glass like breath on cold crystal, casting the upper floors of SparkDigital in a muted gray. Avery stood in his office, eyes locked on the skyline, shoulders tight beneath the sharp cut of his navy blazer. His reflection in the window looked pale. Hollow-eyed. The last few days had been hell—his health was deteriorating faster than he admitted, and emotionally, Sloane had gone ice-cold again.
When the call came—"The board would like to see you. Urgently."—he felt the shift in air pressure before he stepped into the trap.
*********
The boardroom smelled of old leather and ego. Long mahogany table, twelve seats, ten vultures. Avery stepped in, nodding to the room, spine straight despite the discomfort tugging deep under his ribs.
At the far end sat LeClaire, a VP with silver hair and a history of passive-aggressive smirks. She gestured toward the head seat. "Mr. Ford. Please."
