Zach finally exhaled, the tension in his back releasing as he leaned into the tall, leather chair that had begun to feel more like a prison throne than a seat of power.
"Finally…" he murmured. "Done with the damned paperwork."
His voice was low, ragged from hours of silence, broken only by the scraping of pens and the rustling of stiff pages. The ornate desk in front of him was now a wasteland of signed contracts, memoranda, legal drafts, and the bloodless battles of commerce.
The only sound in the room was the faint ticking of the antique analog clock mounted on the far wall—an heirloom his father insisted remained in every branch office of their estate.
Zach's gaze drifted toward it now, frowning faintly.
8:58 PM.
He blinked, as if the clock had insulted him.
