The lobby of the Whitmore & Associates building during the board dinner was an exercise in curated opulence, all polished marble, hushed conversations, and the clinking of crystal that sounded like shattering ice.
Dave Whitmore moved through it like a man who owned the air itself. He possessed that rare, dangerous kind of presence: the kind that didn't demand attention but commanded space, a silent declaration that he belonged in every room he entered.
Mike watched him from across the expanse of the ballroom. He wasn't staring; staring was amateur, but he was observing with the cold, predatory focus of a hawk circling a thermal.
He watched the way Dave navigated the social architecture of the room, noting the precise angle of his shoulders, the measured cadence of his stride, and the way he positioned himself in the orbit of power without ever appearing to chase it.
