The executive office felt instantly, unnaturally vast the moment the heavy glass door slid shut behind Alistair Triste and Jadelyn Roscoe. The lingering scent of fresh coffee and old paper slowly gave way to the familiar, cool essence of cedarwood and smoked charcoal that always anchored the room.
Galathea Brooks stood completely rigid beside the long conference table, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
Her gaze remained completely locked where the blackened succulent had sat only minutes before, its absent silhouette still seemingly carved into her mind.
