her parents' graves woke the next morning

one in her gut, but it was surrounded by a churning sea of nausea. Every scent-the coffee brewin

il to Grant Fletcher: "Feeling unw

would look like a deliberate act of defiance, a petty delay. She

logy acquisition. It was Taylor Corp's largest pending deal, a multi-billion-dollar play to dominate the AI sector. She had only been respon

oon. Grant Fletcher's voi

equires you at the

of water against her temple

n waiting for two days." Then his voice grew muffled, and another

hin the hour, she'll be in breach," Armand snarl

harp, distinct crash. Something h

dge fund went south this morning. Nine-figure los

"emperor" needed to reassert his sense of power by crushing a "rebellion

invite more extreme, more dangerous retaliation. She had to complete

ing down another wave of nau

stood before the bathroom mirror, staring at the pale, hollow-e

aler meticulously under her eyes, added color to her cheeks, and painted her lip

m black dress with a matching blazer.

d sliced off a thin wedge. Its sharp, acidic scent helped suppress the nausea. She tucked

, gave herself one last look in t

he closed her eyes, focused on her breathing, and reviewed the

s-and-steel monolith of the Taylor Corp bui

walking in to

nd of hair across her face, but she did not flinch. She walked through the revolving doors, he