The mahogany dining table in the Agro-Capital was long enough to host a minor parliament, but this morning, it felt like a claustrophobic battlefield.
The air was thick with the smell of sizzling sausages, buttery scrambled eggs, freshly baked sourdough, and enough high-tension testosterone to power a small factory.
I sat down, my body feeling remarkably heavy and my brain currently operating on 2% battery. I had strategically placed myself at the head of the table, flanked by Sir Alex on my left and Malphas on my right. I figured if I was the buffer zone, I could physically tackle whoever started throwing the silver first.
"Coffee," I croaked, as Latte slid a steaming porcelain cup in front of me. She didn't just place it; she gave me a slow, knowing smirk that practically screamed, 'I saw the King's pectorals, Boss, and your secret is not safe with me.'
