The room shifted the moment they heard Charle's voice.
Heads turned. Eyebrows lifted. Lips twitched—some into scowls, others into tight, plastic smiles. A few of the board members grimaced openly.
Charles Monclaire wasn't on the guest list.
He didn't need to be.
He stepped into the VIP booth without waiting for permission. No rush. No hesitation. Just that deliberate, measured walk—slow enough to feel rehearsed, confident enough to make it land.
He wore an all-white suit, crisp and tailored, paired with a silver shirt left unbuttoned enough to make older members fidget and younger ones pretend not to look.
His smile? Wide. Pretty. Vicious.
Dean Sanchez, ever the designated doormat, was the first to react. He stood too quickly, knocking a small bottle off the table in his flail to seem composed. It landed with a dull thud, but he ignored it, arms already spreading like a desperate sunrise.
