The private conference room adjacent to the medical wing had been chosen specifically for this conversation—isolated enough that sensitive topics could be discussed without surveillance concerns, close enough to Riyan's recovery chamber that they could respond immediately if complications arose, and small enough that the four women present couldn't easily avoid confronting each other's perspectives.
Riya Descartes sat at the head of the table, her SS+ rank presence radiating controlled intensity that made the temperature in the room uncomfortably warm despite climate control. Her blue eyes tracked the three younger women with analytical focus that missed nothing—not Syra's possessive agitation, not Raven's barely suppressed emotional turmoil, not Livia's cold calculation that was struggling to maintain equilibrium.
