Chapter 75 Rockwell In Crisis

The conference room was stifling, despite the central cooling. Silas Rockwell stood at the head of the long obsidian table, jaw locked, eyes sharp as frostbitten steel. His tailored charcoal suit, once a symbol of dominance, now felt like a noose around his neck. Across from him sat twelve of Rockwell’s most powerful stakeholders, men and women who had once applauded his vision, now tearing it apart with panicked voices and whispered accusations. “Twenty-two percent down in two hours,” muttered Lawrence Greaves, the oldest and most venomous of the board. His fingers, pale and bony, tapped a rhythm of doom on the table’s edge.