Davian's Point Of View
The doors to the meeting room shut behind us with a dull thud that echoed down the marbled hallway, like a gavel delivering a sentence I hadn't agreed to.
I didn't look back.
I couldn't.
I just kept walking, my shoes clicking heavily against the sleek, high-gloss floors of Nikolai D'Angelo's skyscraper like I was marching toward a cliff with no brakes and no parachute.
Three billion dollars.
The number roared in my head like a violent storm. Loud. Obnoxious. Unshakable.
Three. Billion. Dollars.
I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my throat as I reached the end of the corridor, my thoughts spiraling into a blur of panic. The elevators gleamed in front of me, polished silver doors reflecting the tight lines of my face, the flicker of doubt in my eyes.
