The holding room was a masterclass in psychological discomfort. The walls were painted a sickly, institutional beige, and the fluorescent lights hummed with a manic, flickering energy that drilled directly into Vivienne Croft’s skull. She sat on a metal bench bolted to the linoleum floor

Julian’s penthouse was an eagle’s nest of glass and steel, suspended high above the glittering grid of Manhattan. At two in the morning, the city below was a silent sea of lights, but inside the sprawling library, the atmosphere was electric.

Vivienne sat cross-legged on one of the mass

The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was suffocatingly opulent, its crystal chandeliers casting a harsh, unforgiving light over the three hundred shareholders of Croft-Sterling Enterprises. The air hummed with tense murmurs, the clinking of water glasses, and the rustle of proxy ballots