The Harrington Building rose forty stories above the Financial District, its glass facade a monument to a century of accumulated power. On the thirty-fifth floor, behind walls of polished marble and mahogany, the boardroom waited like a mausoleum.
Lucas arrived at seven-fifty, fifteen minutes early by design. He wanted to see their faces as they entered, wanted to read the tells before the performance began. The emergency board meeting had been called at six AM—too early for careful preparation, too late for his enemies to claim they hadn't been warned.
Sophia waited by the elevator bank, tablet clutched to her chest like a shield.
"Eleven confirmations," she said, falling into step beside him. "Jeffries is flying in from Zurich. Martin canceled a surgery."
"And Deering?"
"Already inside."
