Felix Canmore did not rage like lesser men.
Lesser men shouted, threw glasses, overturned chairs, slammed fists against desks, and mistook noise for consequence. They allowed servants to see flushed faces and trembling hands. They gave witnesses details to repeat.
Felix had never cared for such vulgarity.
His rage was quiet.
It sat inside his private office like a killing frost.
Three secretaries had already left the room pale. One legal aide had forgotten the same document twice and was now standing near the side table with the bloodless expression of a man who had begun to question whether his ancestors had committed unforgivable sins. The household communication officer had not looked up from her terminal in twenty minutes, which was wise. The chief financial clerk had made the mistake of breathing too loudly during the first hour and had since developed the stiff posture of someone trying to exist in a way that did not disturb air.
