The lobby of Kingsley Private Equity wasn't just big—it was cathedral-sized money.
Marble floors so polished they looked wet enough to drown in. Gold-veined columns stretching up into a skylight that poured arrogant daylight like even the sun had to clock in and kiss the ring. Screens on the walls flashed stocks, acquisitions, headlines about fallen companies being resurrected under the Kingsley brand—each one screaming legacy, power, danger.
And then the temperature just… dropped.
People felt her before they saw her.
A small ripple went through the employees closest to the main entrance—like an invisible chord tightening around their throats. Conversations died mid-syllable. Coffee cups paused mid-lift. The ambient hum of productivity went silent, replaced by something thicker.
Heavier.
Dread.
Aurelia Royce stepped inside.
Tall. Razor-slim. Black heels hitting the marble like executions—each click a guillotine dropping one more second off someone's career.
