The dining room in the Cornelius' house had always felt like a courtroom to Tara.
It was beautiful, elegant even. A long polished oak table stretched across the center of the room beneath a chandelier that cast warm gold light over everything. Tall windows overlooked the gardens and the distant lake.
However, beauty had never softened the purpose of the room. This was where deals were made, where alliances were secured, where futures were decided.
Today was no different.
Marcus Cornelius sat at the head of the table, composed as always, a quiet authority in the crisp lines of his dark suit. Years of leadership had shaped the way he carried himself. Calm, deliberate, impossible to read.
Across from him sat Richard Thompson, her father, equally formidable though far more relaxed in his posture. Richard had the air of a man who enjoyed watching storms rather than preventing them.
