In the opulent boardroom of Vexley Holdings, high above the restless pulse of New York City, the air was heavy with polished mahogany, burnt cigar smoke, and unspoken resentment. Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, slicing the room into stripes of gold and shadow that fell across a sprawling oak table littered with reports and neglected coffee cups—paper ghosts of fortunes once secure.
Charles Vexley paced the length of the room like a caged animal, the click of his Italian loafers echoing off marble floors. His silver hair, perfectly combed, framed a face hardened by decades of dominance—and softened only slightly by the faint strain of age around his eyes. His tailored navy suit, stretched across his broadening midsection, did little to hide the tension that simmered beneath.
