The boardroom on the top floor of Shey Holdings was unusually quiet for a space that normally swallowed voices and returned them as pressure. Floor to ceiling glass walls displayed Yaoundé's skyline like a moving painting, sunlight cutting through the space in clean, clinical strips. Inside, polished wood, glass screens, and the faint scent of expensive cologne created a world that did not forgive mistakes.
Caro sat at the long conference table, hands folded carefully over a set of documents she had prepared overnight. Her pulse had not fully settled since morning. Peter had not spoken to her directly since they entered the room, but she felt him everywhere. In the silence. In the pauses between executives speaking. In this way the air shifted whenever he moved.
At the head of the table, Peter Shey reviewed the quarterly projection report. His expression was unreadable, as always. Cold precision. Controlled authority. A man who did not waste emotion where numbers would do.
