The city glittered below like a bowl of crushed diamonds, each building stabbing upward as if daring the skyline to look away. From fifty floors above the chaos, the Zenith Corporate Summit was meant to be a sanctuary of civility, a place where the world's richest exchanged handshakes and half-smiles in the name of "collaboration."
It was a polite lie.
The instant Marcus Virell and Elena Azul entered the same boardroom, the air thickened. Even seasoned executives, immune to petty rivalries, felt the temperature drop. The room wasn't cold—its climate control hummed silently—but the tension was palpable, a living thing. Everyone knew: putting the Virells and Azuls on the same committee was less a strategic decision and more a declaration of war.
The boardroom was all glass walls, polished marble, and brushed gold accents, designed to impress, to intimidate. But even the luxurious sheen couldn't mask the room's transformation into an arena. Here, egos collided like colliding tectonic plates.
Elena sat at one end of the table, posture rigid, fingers interlaced as if she could hold the universe together by sheer will. Marcus lounged at the opposite end, arms crossed, his expression sculpted from disdain and legacy. Every chair, every tablet, every half-empty glass of water seemed to shrink away from the growing storm between them.
The CEO hosting the summit cleared his throat, voice thin with apprehension.
"We'll begin with agenda item one—allocation of investments for Project Helios."
A wave of practiced professionalism swept the table. Tablets clicked, pens scribbled, whispers murmured. Everyone was ready.
Everyone, that is, except Marcus and Elena.
They locked eyes, and the room fell silent. Not a nervous pause—an actual vacuum of sound. A junior executive, trapped in the wrong corner, slid his chair back instinctively, hoping to disappear entirely.
Elena's voice broke the silence first—clear, crisp, and razor-sharp.
"Helios is an energy transition project. We need a sustainable, future-forward plan. My proposal—"
Marcus raised a hand in a dismissive flick, cutting her off mid-sentence.
"There you go again. The world doesn't run on idealism, Elena. It runs on numbers."
Elena exhaled, sharp and deliberate.
"And your numbers," she said, voice tight with controlled fury, "have been declining for six quarters."
Someone nearby audibly choked on air.
Marcus leaned forward, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.
"At least my company isn't bleeding money while its founder chases magazine covers instead of innovation."
Elena's jaw snapped shut.
"Say that again."
"Oh, I will." Marcus's tone sliced through the room like steel. "Your brand is flash. Mine is legacy. And I will not let you drag this summit into one of your fashion-show fantasies."
Whispers rippled like a current through the room. The tension surged.
Elena rose halfway, palms pressed flat against the marble table, her presence demanding attention.
"For once in your life, Marcus, listen. Helios needs a strategy grounded in efficiency—"
"And for once in yours," Marcus interrupted, voice cutting like a whip, "stop pretending your company is the backbone of this industry. Azul Enterprises survives on trends. Virell Industries defines them."
Chairs scraped. A hesitant murmur escaped someone's lips:
"Here we go…"
The moderator stepped forward, hands raised in futile diplomacy.
"Perhaps we can—"
"No," Elena snapped, cutting him off. Her voice trembled not with fear, but with fury.
"My proposal is the only realistic solution. You do not get to dismiss it just because you think your ego has seniority."
Marcus stood, looming, radiating a decades-honed confidence born of old-money entitlement.
"My ego?" he laughed, a sound void of humor. "Elena, your entire business model is an ego trip. I'm offering the correct approach. Follow it."
"You mean bow to you," she said, lips curling in contempt, "again? After everything, you still believe the world should orbit you?"
And then it happened.
Marcus slammed his palm onto the table. The sound cracked across the room like a gunshot. Everyone flinched. Glasses rattled. Papers trembled. Even the polished marble seemed to recoil.
A lone intern in the corner—pale, sweating, probably underpaid—lifted his phone. Not to capture evidence intentionally, but as if his hands had a will of their own. Red light blinking, the camera recorded everything.
Marcus hissed between clenched teeth.
"You think you know better than me?"
Elena leaned in, voice ice-cold.
"I always have."
Silence followed. Glacial. Piercing. Absolute.
Finally, the moderator's timid whisper floated through the tension:
"We… we'll reconvene after lunch."
Nobody breathed. Nobody moved. Marcus and Elena stormed out, slamming the glass doors so violently it rattled the city's reflection back at them.
---
Twenty minutes later, the internet erupted.
The clip hit like a meteor, spreading across feeds and screens with unstoppable force. Hashtags trended globally:
#VirellvsAzul
#RichPeopleDrama
#BoardroomBattle
Comments flooded in, a digital torrent of shock, amusement, and judgment:
> "These families need holy water."
"Bro, they can't go a single decade without beef."
"Imagine being their kids—therapy booked for life."
"Azul daughter vs. Virell son when?? 😭🔥"
"They're embarrassing the entire billionaire species."
News outlets scrambled. Podcasters argued. Analysts tried to rationalize a feud that had been festering for decades. Everyone had an opinion.
But the world didn't yet understand the real war.
Not Marcus vs. Elena.
No. The real conflict was brewing in the next generation.
Jordan Azul.
Lionel Virell.
Heirs to empires, heirs to vendettas, heirs to a hatred they had never chosen. Their personalities were sharp enough to scorch steel. Their destinies were entwined long before either had set foot in a boardroom.
And soon…
The world would watch the next chapter of this feud unfold on a much larger, far more dangerous stage.