The Arden Group boardroom was designed to impress—or intimidate, depending on which side of the long polished oak table you sat. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline like a kingdom under glass, sunlight streaming through and bouncing off steel fixtures until everything gleamed too brightly to feel comfortable.
Ethan stood outside the heavy double doors, tugging at the cuff of his tailored suit. It fit him like a costume borrowed from a stranger. He muttered under his breath, "Feels like I'm walking into a courtroom… or a firing squad."
Beside him, Walter adjusted his tie with precise fingers, though his eyes were fixed on Ethan's every twitch. "Remember," Walter said quietly, "speak little, nod often, and if you must say anything—keep it simple. You're recovering from trauma. That is our shield."
"Right," Ethan whispered back, swallowing hard. "Trauma. Got it. Do I look traumatized enough? Should I add a twitch?"
Walter's jaw tightened. "Do. Not. Twitch."
The doors swung open, and the low hum of conversation stilled as twenty pairs of eyes snapped toward them. The board of the Arden Group—executives, directors, investors—sat arranged like hawks around the table, their expensive suits blending into a monochrome wall of expectation. At the head of the table sat Victor Arden, his expression carved from stone, lips curling into the faintest shadow of a smirk.
"Adrian," Victor said smoothly, rising halfway in greeting. "You've decided to grace us with your presence."
Ethan forced a smile that felt like it belonged on a wax figure. He strode in, every step rehearsed with Walter's drilling, and slid into the seat prepared for him. Walter took the chair just behind, close enough to whisper directions if needed.
"Good morning," Ethan said, his voice steady but a touch too bright. "Lovely… uh, weather."
A couple of brows rose. One executive cleared his throat. Victor's smirk deepened.
Walter leaned forward just enough to murmur, "Silence is strength."
Ethan nodded sharply, then froze, realizing he had nodded too many times in quick succession. He smoothed his face, clasped his hands together, and tried to look "dignified." It felt like trying to impersonate a mannequin.
The meeting began with numbers, charts, projections—all things Ethan had never cared about in his life. Words like "merger," "liquid assets," and "stakeholder confidence" ricocheted off the walls. Ethan's brain, meanwhile, was busily comparing the chandelier above to the one in Adrian's penthouse. That one looked like a crystal octopus. This one looks like a crystal jellyfish.
Walter, sensing the mental drift, slid a folder discreetly toward him. "Review these notes," he whispered.
Ethan opened it, expecting graphs. Instead, Walter had prepared a cheat sheet in bold letters:
Nod seriously when spoken to.
Say: 'I'll review the numbers closely.'
Avoid smiling like a clown.
Ethan bit his lip to suppress a laugh. He coughed instead, covering the sound.
Victor, watching from across the table, narrowed his eyes. "Adrian, your thoughts on the Kameda merger?"
The room hushed. All heads turned toward Ethan. Walter's hand twitched behind him, signaling with a single finger to stick to the script.
Ethan cleared his throat. "The… merger. Yes." He leaned forward, clasping his hands as though he had rehearsed this a thousand times. "I believe it's… promising. But I'll need to review the numbers closely before making a final decision."
A murmur of approval rippled around the table. One director nodded. Another scribbled something on his notepad.
Victor, however, didn't look convinced. His eyes flicked, hawk-sharp, to the slight tremor in Ethan's hand, the way he avoided prolonged eye contact, the softness in his tone that felt unlike the Adrian they knew.
"Recovering from trauma, remember," Walter interjected smoothly, his voice calm but firm as though cutting off a brewing storm. "The accident left lingering strain. It will take time for Mr. Arden to fully re-engage."
A few board members murmured sympathetically. One older man adjusted his glasses and said, "Of course, of course. Health first."
Ethan exhaled slowly through his nose, relief flooding him. He picked up his glass of water, only for his hand to wobble slightly. A thin stream of water sloshed onto his sleeve. He set the glass down quickly, muttering, "Sorry. Tremors. Trauma."
The excuse worked. The board nodded again, faces softening with polite pity.
Victor's smirk vanished, replaced by a thin, thoughtful frown. He tapped his fingers against the polished wood, eyes drilling into Ethan as though trying to carve the truth from him.
The meeting droned on. Ethan kept his head down, saying little, nodding at intervals just as Walter instructed. But occasionally, his humor slipped through like cracks in the mask.
When a director presented a chart filled with endless upward arrows, Ethan leaned over to Walter and whispered, a bit too audibly, "Looks like someone's kid went wild with crayons."
A couple of stifled chuckles came from the far end of the table. Walter pinched his nose. Victor's stare sharpened like a blade.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the meeting drew to a close. Papers shuffled, chairs scraped, and polite chatter filled the room again.
Ethan rose stiffly, forcing another dignified nod. "Gentlemen. Ladies. Thank you."
He followed Walter out of the room, the heavy doors shutting behind them with a weight that made Ethan sag against the wall. He loosened his tie with a dramatic sigh.
"Well," he said, grinning weakly, "how'd I do? Ten out of ten?"
Walter adjusted his glasses, face unreadable. "Three out of ten. And that is generous."
Ethan chuckled, pushing off the wall. "Hey, I passed the test. Nobody threw me out the window."
Walter gave him a long, measured look. "Nobody yet."
But as they walked away, Walter's eyes softened just slightly. Ethan, for all his fumbling, had managed to survive his first step
into Adrian's world. Barely—but he had survived.
And for now, that was enough.