The Silverstone Industries boardroom looked like a battlefield at seven in the morning. Coffee rings stained the mahogany table, laptops hummed with exhaustion, and six of London's sharpest financial minds looked like they'd been through a blender. Which, considering the night they'd had, wasn't far off.
Seraphina stood at the head of the table, the silver pendant still warm against her throat. News coverage from last night played on mute across three wall-mounted screens. "Mysterious Light Show Over Canary Wharf" scrolled endlessly. "Social Media Buzzes with Supernatural Claims."
She could feel their eyes on her. Waiting for an explanation. Waiting for her to fall apart or make excuses or do something that would let them write off last night as some kind of breakdown.
Instead, she set down her coffee cup with a sharp click that cut through the nervous murmur of conversation.
