The glass in the CEO's office didn't shatter when the door slammed, but it might as well have. To Martin Mole, the sound was as final as a gunshot in a canyon, echoing through the floors of the offfice until the very foundations felt unstable.
He stood frozen behind his mahogany desk, his "storm-gray" eyes fixed on the empty doorway. He was waiting. In every negotiation he had ever held, there was a beat a moment of hesitation where the opponent realized they had overplayed their hand and turned back to find a compromise.
He waited for ten seconds. Twenty. Sixty.
The only thing that returned was the hum of the air conditioning and the distant, muffled sound of his empire continuing to move without its heart.
Slowly, his gaze dropped to the resignation letter. It sat on the polished wood like a parasite, draining the prestige from the room. *"I, Fiona Flare, hereby resign... effective immediately."*
