"The market has closed," Camille said, her voice dropping the public projection and returning to the cold, lethal purr of the Sovereign.
The heavy mahogany doors of the executive suite sealed shut with a magnetic lock.
Clack.
The roar of the press pool, the flashing bulbs, the terrified whispers of the board members—all of it vanished, severed by three inches of soundproofed wood. The suite was a silent, refrigerated vacuum suspended forty stories above Makati.
Yanna stood two paces inside the door. The heavy black wool dress hung off her like a shroud. The four-inch clear plastic heels dug into the carpet. The three-pound tungsten plug dragged relentlessly at her pelvic floor, a cold, unyielding anchor of reality.
"Did the market react favorably, Sovereign?" Yanna asked, her voice flat and perfectly modulated.
