MJ Clarkson had been hosting corporate events for Maxwell Corporation. He prided himself on reading a room better than most people. Today, however, the atmosphere felt less like a business meeting and more like the tense moments before a gladiatorial match.
I should've faked the flu—or food poisoning. Or outright declared myself dead.
He thought miserably as the assembly hall's holographic displays flickered to life, casting shifting lights across the polished floor.
Anything but this.
He stepped fully inside, adjusting his uniform jacket out of habit. The crowd had already formed small circles, and everyone pretended they weren't staring at the spectacle unfolding at the far end of the room.
MJ glanced around the conference room, taking mental notes of each attendee's expression. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Hell, it was thick enough to cut with a spoon.
