Theresa.
The afternoon sun cast long, amber rays across the plush carpeting of the executive penthouse floor. The post-lunch quiet had settled nicely over the top level of the Ironclad Group headquarters, broken only by the faint, rhythmic clicking of my keyboard and the soft hum of the air conditioning.
I sat at my central desk in the foyer, my fingers moving expertly over the keys as I finalized the afternoon filing queue. But my focus wasn't entirely on the corporate spreadsheets in front of me. My mind kept drifting back to the dining room—specifically to the exact moment Lawrence had gone silent across the table.
He had hidden it brilliantly. To anyone else, Lawrence of Ironclad pack was the epitome of absolute control—calm, composed, and endlessly rational. He had offered his smooth, practiced smiles, tossed out dry, polished witty remarks, and smoothly redirected the conversation whenever Lurgard got too loud.
