The conference room had gone from sterile corporate chic to a war room straight out of Dr. Strangelove. Only instead of nukes, reputations were detonating in real time. Every phone screamed for attention like toddlers trapped in a Walmart toy aisle, and the distinguished academics were flailing about as gracefully as people who'd never faced actual consequences.
Dr. Whitmore looked like she was mid-stroke, her Harvard composure snapping faster than Britney Spears circa 2007. Dean Micha had gone from Stanford bronze to corpse grey in thirty seconds flat — impressive metabolic flexibility for a man who probably considers walking to his Tesla cardio.
"Eighteen percent!" shrieked someone from the video conference screen. "Quantum Tech is down eighteen fucking percent!"
I leaned back in my chair, leather creaking under me, watching Charlotte maintain her ice queen poise while billions of market cap evaporated like credibility at a Trump press briefing.
Titanium ovaries, absolutely.
