The ballroom was frozen.
Not metaphorically—literally.
Frost crept across the edges of the chandelier glass. The wine in half-filled flutes began to ice over. Breath became visible in the air, hanging like ghosts of words unspoken.
Helena stepped forward slowly, almost reverently, and placed a thick black folder into Grandfather Wilder's weathered hands. Her eyes shimmered with something ancient as she whispered, "The acquisition paperwork is complete. Wilder Holdings now owns 86% of Ashford Global Media and its primary assets. The rest... will follow before midnight."
The old man didn't speak. Not yet. He was still staring at the folder like it had grown fangs and promised him revenge with interest.
But Parker—Parker had already stopped seeing the room.
His smile faded. His chest didn't rise. His gaze turned distant, then icy, and then...
Unnatural.
Because in that moment, he heard it.
A voice, not spoken through sound or air, but directly into the architecture of his soul.
