DOMAN’S POV

The conference room smelled like expensive cologne, polished wood and quiet tension. I leaned back in my chair, jacket perfectly buttoned, sleeves crisp, expression neutral enough to pass as respectful.

My latest project pitch had just wrapped up, and from the satisfied nods and murmured approval around the table, I knew I had them exactly where I wanted them.

Mr. Keller, the oldest among them cleared his throat. “Before we close, there’s one more matter.” He exchanged a ...