The boardroom tried to breathe again, though the air still carried the weight of shattered glass from the previous clash.
The projector flickered to life, numbers and charts sprawling across the glass wall at the end of the table. A junior director droned in a steady monotone about quarterly performance, his voice flat, rehearsed. Columns of blue and red bars rose and fell on the screen, percentages glowing under the midday light streaming through the window.
But no one was truly watching.
The directors sat stiff in their chairs, pens scratching lazily against notepads, eyes sliding too often toward the head of the table. Toward the three figures sitting too close together, too tense, too loud in their silence.
Mira—flawless in navy, posture like steel, pen tapping once, twice, steady as a clock. The faint crease between her brows betrayed how hard she was working to maintain the image of unshaken composure.
Myra—draped in scarlet, leaning into her chair with deliberate ease, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. The shine of satin caught the morning sun, daring, unapologetic. Her perfume still lingered, rich and sweet, mixing poorly with the stale scent of coffee and paper.
And Arkellin—between them, still as stone. Black suit, white streak in his hair catching the light, expression unreadable. His hands rested on the table, fingers laced, eyes fixed forward. If he felt the tension crackling at his sides, he gave no sign.
The financial director cleared his throat, adjusting his tie as if trying to force the room back into focus.
"As you can see," he said, voice a touch louder now, "the projections for Q3 suggest—"
His words died against the glass. Even he could feel the futility.
Because the board wasn't listening to him. They were listening to the silence between Mira, Myra, and the man who sat like gravity itself, pulling both fire and ice into orbit around him.
The storm hadn't passed. It had only gone quiet, waiting for the next strike.
It came on the tip of a laugh, soft and deliberate.
Myra leaned forward in her chair, the scarlet satin of her dress catching the sunlight as though it had been waiting for this moment. She angled her body subtly toward Arkellin, close enough that her perfume—sweet, intoxicating, a little too rich—slipped into his air.
Her fingers moved next, slow, almost idle. They traced along the edge of the table first, then slid over, brushing against Arkellin's sleeve. The touch was feather-light, a tease more than contact, but it was impossible to ignore.
Her voice followed, low enough to carry the intimacy of a whisper, but pitched perfectly so every director in the room could hear.
"What's your view, Mr. Andy?"
The words rippled through the air like a stone thrown into still water.
Arkellin didn't move. His jaw tightened just enough to betray that he'd felt her touch, but his gaze stayed forward, steady on the projection at the far end of the room.
The directors shifted, pens stilled mid-scratch, whispers leaking out despite themselves.
"She's baiting him again."
"In front of everyone…"
"Unbelievable."
Myra didn't stop. She let her fingers linger, her nails grazing the fabric of his suit sleeve before withdrawing slowly, a smile curving her lips. Her eyes—bright, playful, dangerous—were locked not on the board, not on the screen, but on Arkellin alone.
Mira's pen froze mid-tap. Her eyes cut sideways, sharp as glass, watching the arc of Myra's hand, the deliberate provocation written in every movement.
The financial director faltered at the front of the room, his presentation collapsing into stammers as the current in the air swallowed the rhythm of his words.
And Arkellin, unmoved, sat between fire and ice, the weight of both sisters pressing in, waiting to see which way he would lean.
Arkellin moved at last.
He shifted only slightly—hands unlacing, one palm resting flat on the table. His gaze lifted to the glowing charts at the end of the room. When he spoke, his voice was calm, level, but carried a precision that cut cleaner than any blade.
"The projections are inflated," he said. "If you remove the temporary cash infusions disguised as operational revenue, you'll find the company is bleeding in three places: logistics, shadow subsidiaries, and stalled patents."
The financial director blinked, startled. "That's—"
Arkellin continued, unhurried, each word deliberate.
"Your logistics contracts are being siphoned through middlemen, draining profit margins by nearly twelve percent. The subsidiaries created to mask losses are now consuming more than they hide. And the patents—if left dormant—will lose exclusivity in less than a year. By then, competitors will harvest them."
Silence hit the boardroom like a hammer.
Several directors straightened unconsciously, their pens no longer moving. One man adjusted his tie with nervous fingers; another woman's eyes flickered between Arkellin and the figures on her report, recalculating.
Even Myra, still leaning too close, stilled. Her smile lingered, but there was something new in her gaze—something sharper.
Mira moved quickly, her voice slicing through the quiet before the weight of his words could settle too deeply.
"What our consultant is highlighting," she said smoothly, tone like polished steel, "is opportunity. Weaknesses, yes—but weaknesses that we, as heirs, can transform into strength. This board has the tools to restructure logistics, streamline subsidiaries, and reawaken patents before they lapse. It is not a crisis. It is a turning point."
Her delivery was flawless—measured, professional, unyielding.
The directors exhaled in relief, murmuring approval at her control of the narrative. The storm Arkellin had dropped on the table was softened, repackaged into corporate optimism by Mira's deft hand.
Still, the impression lingered. They'd heard his analysis. They couldn't unhear it.
And in the corner of the room, more than one director found themselves glancing at Arkellin again—not as a scandal, but as a man who saw what they'd missed.
Mira's voice carried across the silence, crisp and deliberate, smoothing edges that Arkellin had left razor-sharp. Her poise was unshaken, the authority in her tone commanding. "That is what leadership means—turning cracks into foundations. Clock Corp doesn't stumble; it adapts."
Directors nodded, some murmuring assent, grateful for the reassurance.
Then Myra laughed softly.
The sound was light, musical, but threaded with something meant to sting. She leaned an elbow on the table, chin tilted in her palm, eyes fixed squarely on Arkellin. "See?" she said brightly, though the words dripped with implication. "That's why he's here. He sees what others can't."
The perfume she wore still lingered thick in the air, a sweet fire against Mira's ice.
Mira's jaw tightened, but her expression didn't falter. She flipped a page in her folder, the motion sharp, precise. "We don't need theatrics," she said evenly. "What we need is discipline. And discretion." Her eyes didn't leave Myra's, the message clear.
The room was a fragile balance of frost and flame, with Arkellin the axis around which both spun.
It was then that one of the older directors, the silver-haired man who had sneered earlier, leaned back in his chair. His smile was thin, sardonic. His voice carried just enough disdain to make the whole room tense again.
"Funny," he said, tapping his pen once against the table. "You speak as if you know more than the company's own heirs."
The words hit like a stone tossed into still water—ripples spreading instantly across the table. Eyes darted, waiting.
Arkellin didn't rise to the bait.
He turned his head slightly, gaze brushing the director, then returned to the papers before him as if the comment hadn't touched him at all.
Only the faintest curve ghosted across his lips. A cool, knowing smile.
And in that quiet, the balance of power shifted again.
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