Windsor's POV
The tension in Mr. Sinclair' private office was suffocating. The mahogany walls seemed to close in as battle lines were drawn across the expensive Persian rug.
Miguel lounged in his chair like he owned the place, his perfectly styled hair barely disturbed despite the fight. Shields flanked him, chest puffed with false bravado. Evelyn perched on the edge of her seat, her designer dress wrinkle-free and her smile sharp as a blade.
On the opposite side, I sat rigid, my knuckles white as I gripped my knees. Pauline beside me radiated fury, the scrapes on her legs still bleeding through her torn stockings. The empty chair between us felt like a gaping wound - Arnold was somewhere in the medical wing, probably still seeing double.
Mr. Sinclair adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and leaned forward. His voice carried the weight of absolute authority.
"Someone needs to explain what happened today."
