Though Halycon&Co was only one subsidiary under the sprawling Sinclair empire, its growth in recent years had been meteoric. And now, with the family heir stepping in to personally oversee operations, no one in the building took the moment lightly.

A new boss always meant a new regime.

Everyone knew Vincent Sinclair’s arrival wasn’t a formality. It was a reckoning.

The 2:00 p.m. meeting had been circled, highlighted, and whispered about in every corridor. Isabella arrived a few minutes early, hoping for a moment to collect herself. But the boardroom was already full.

The air inside was unnaturally still.

She stepped inside quietly, scanning the room—and then her gaze locked.

Vincent Sinclair was already seated at the head of the table, his posture relaxed but unmistakably dominant. One hand rested atop a folder, his long fingers rhythmically tapping the cover. The motion was slow, calculated—yet somehow furious. An unspoken warning.

The light caught the silver in his cufflinks, making him seem more statue than man. Refined, yes. But with a stillness that made you nervous.

He wasn’t simply calm. He was unreadable. Dangerous.

Isabella slipped into a seat, her palms already damp. Her mind flashed to earlier—that elevator, that stare, that merciful moment when he didn’t recognize her.

"Chairman Sinclair, everyone is present. Shall we begin?" one of the senior executives asked, standing with forced calm.

Vincent gave a curt nod. "Proceed."

Each department head launched into their updates. No one joked. No one stammered. Everyone brought numbers like armor.

Isabella sat, clutching the folder she'd scrambled to finish not thirty minutes ago. Every word from the presenters blurred in her ears. Her fingers tightened around her notes.

Then it was her turn.

She stood, her knees locked to keep them from shaking, and began to summarize the Q2 performance.

The numbers were solid. Halycon&Co had grown steadily. Her report was accurate. She had double-checked everything. She had to believe that.

But as she spoke, her voice echoing through the tense room, Vincent's fingers stopped tapping.

"Repeat that," he said quietly.

The entire room went still.

Vincent remained turned slightly away, one hand now propped under his chin, elbow on the armrest. He looked casual. Effortless.

Lethal.

Isabella blinked. Her throat closed for a moment. Then, forcing herself, she repeated the figures.

Before she finished, his chair turned.

With a gentle push of his foot, the executive chair pivoted smoothly, and now he was facing her. Directly. His gaze locked onto hers, cold and inscrutable.

"You're the general manager's assistant?"

She swallowed. "Yes, Chairman Sinclair."

"And do you typically deliver quarterly reports at department head meetings?"

There was no heat in his tone. But the weight of it made her spine lock straight.

"No, sir. Not usually. This was an exception."

He tilted his head slightly. "So when you do, do you review the data thoroughly before you speak?"

Her blood chilled.

Something was wrong.

"Yes, I do. I reviewed it before—"

"Are you sure?"

The question was low. Controlled. His eyebrows knit together with precise doubt.

Her confidence cracked. Just slightly.

She opened the folder again, scanning it as if she'd find the error instantly. But the numbers were the same. She had used Lily’s data. She had read it twice.

What mistake?

Her breath caught as shame flushed up her neck. Everyone in the room was watching her now. Not the new assistant. Not just a junior. But the woman singled out by Vincent Sinclair himself.

She had never felt smaller.

Her lips parted. "I—"

But the words didn’t come.

She didn’t know what to say.

She had never wanted the floor to open up and swallow her more in her life.