The lights dimmed just a touch, a subtle shift that made the spotlights on the two podiums blaze hotter, brighter, like twin suns scorching the stage and pinning the men beneath them in harsh, unforgiving white.
The air in the sunken circle hung thick and heavy, charged with electricity, every breath pulling in the scent of polished wood warmed by bodies, the faint ozone hum of hot electronics overhead, and the sharper, more primal bite of too many egos crammed into one room, all sharp suits and sharper ambitions.
Devon stood loose and easy behind his podium, one hand resting light on the dark, glossy grain, fingers relaxed but ready, gray eyes locked steady and unblinking on Julian across the narrow gap that felt miles wide with tension.
The Frenchman looked carved from glacial ice and barely leashed fury, his face a mask of controlled rage.
