Chapter 119: The Gilded Arena

The boardroom of Rogers Industries was a temple to a certain kind of power. Sunlight streamed through twenty-foot windows, illuminating a table of ancient, polished oak long enough to land a small aircraft on. The air smelled of lemon wax, expensive coffee, and a subtle, competitive tension. Portraits of Anton’s forebears gazed sternly down from the wood-panelled walls.

Anton sat at the head, a prince in his inheritance. He was flawlessly dressed in a charcoal suit that was armour, his posture relaxed but utterly controlled. To his immediate right, in a seat traditionally reserved for the most senior independent director, sat Sir Malcolm Thorne. At seventy-two, he was a study in venerable authority: silver hair swept back, a face lined with the gravitas of decades in boardrooms and, before that, battlefields. He listened to the CFO’s quarterly report with a polite, faintly bored expression, occasionally sipping from a bone china cup.

Sabatine observed from a discreet chair against the wall, positioned as a “security advisor.” He was a shadow in the room of light, his presence noted by some with curiosity, by others—like Thorne—with a single, glacial glance that lingered just a fraction too long. The old knight’s eyes, a faded blue, held no recognition, only the cool assessment one might give to a new piece of furniture.

The meeting was a masterclass in polished venom. The agenda was routine: operational updates, market forecasts, the fallout from the “unfortunate incidents” in Shanghai and Rotterdam, presented as costly but contained. But the subtext was a current of shifting loyalties and veiled challenges.

The head of the Asian division, Lin Feng, delivered his report on the Shanghai aftermath. His tone was professionally contrite, but his conclusion was a needle: “While the physical loss is regrettable, it highlights an over-reliance on centralized, personally-driven initiatives. Perhaps a more decentralized, committee-approved model for future expansions would provide… built-in resilience.”

A direct, elegant strike at Anton’s hands-on leadership style. Anton didn’t flinch. He steepled his fingers. “A committee, Lin, designed the Titanic’s watertight compartments. I prefer agility over consensus when navigating icebergs. The investigation points to a specific, compromised security vendor, not a strategic flaw. We are addressing it.” His gaze swept the table, lingering nowhere, but Sabatine saw it brush past Thorne. “Vigilance, not bureaucracy, is our shield.”

Thorne stirred, setting his cup down with a soft clink that drew every eye. “Vigilance is indeed paramount, Anton,” he said, his voice a dry, rustling parchment. “But vigilance must be paired with wisdom. The concentration of risk in personal projects… it leaves us vulnerable to the passions of a single mind. Your father, for all his drive, understood the strength of the collective.”

It was a brutal comparison, wielded with grandfatherly concern. Your father knew better than you. The room held its breath. Sabatine saw a muscle jump in Anton’s jaw, the only sign of the blow landing.

Anton smiled. It was a cold, beautiful thing. “My father also understood the cost of betrayal, Malcolm. He learned it too late. I am endeavouring to study faster.” He let the word ‘betrayal’ hang, watching Thorne’s face. The old man’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers tightened minutely around his cup handle.

The discussion moved to the proposed “Stuttgart initiative,” Anton’s new, aggressive pivot. He presented it not as a retreat from Milan, but as a bold flanking maneuver—the acquisition of a cutting-edge, family-owned engineering firm that was a symbol of German industrial pride. It was exactly the kind of “legacy” play Thorne publicly championed.

“The Heisenberg Foundry,” Anton said, pulling up images of precision machinery and a stern, elderly founder. “A crown jewel. At risk of being broken up by private equity. Rogers Industries can preserve it, elevate it. But it requires a swift, decisive bid. And it requires the unanimous backing of this board to signal our serious intent.” He looked directly at Thorne. “Malcolm, your voice here would be invaluable. Your reputation for upholding industrial heritage could sway the family trust.”

It was the bait, served on a gilded platter.

Thorne leaned back, stroking his chin, the wise elder considering. “The Heisenbergs… I knew my grandfather. Fine people. Fine engineers. There is a moral imperative to preserve such institutions.” He nodded slowly. “I would need to review the full due diligence, of course. But in principle… yes. I believe this is precisely the direction that balances ambition with stewardship. I would support it.”

A murmur of agreement rippled around the table. Thorne’s endorsement had just legitimized Anton’s new play and, in doing so, subtly positioned himself as the kingmaker, the wise hand guiding the young CEO’s volatile energy.

Sabatine watched the performance with a cold, analytical eye. He saw not just the trap being set, but the profound loneliness of Anton’s position. He was surrounded by people who owed their fortunes to his name, and yet he was utterly alone. Every smile was measured, every agreement calculated, every piece of advice potentially poisoned. The power he wielded was vast, but it was a solitary throne in a room full of courtiers who would pick the flesh from his bones the moment he showed weakness.

The meeting adjourned with an air of tense consensus. As the board members filed out, chatting in low tones, Thorne paused beside Anton’s chair. He placed a frail-looking hand on Anton’s shoulder, a gesture of paternal support.

“A good recovery, Anton,” he said, his voice low. “Stuttgart is a clever move. It shows maturity. Your father would be… cautiously optimistic.” He gave the shoulder a faint squeeze and moved away, leaving behind the scent of bay rum and treachery.

Anton didn’t move until the room was empty save for Sabatine. The poised mask dissolved, leaving behind a face etched with a weary, icy fury. He stared at the chair where Thorne had sat.

“He touched me,” Anton said, his voice devoid of all emotion. “The man who threatened to dismantle me, who called you a ‘pet,’ patted my shoulder and spoke of my father.” He looked at Sabatine, and the loneliness in his eyes was a vast, hollow space. “This is the war. Not in warehouses or servers. In here. With smiles and pats and poisoned praise.”

Sabatine rose and walked to the head of the table. He didn’t offer empty comfort. He placed his own hand on the back of Anton’s chair, a solid, real presence in the gilded, empty arena.

“He took the bait,” Sabatine said quietly. “He inserted himself. Now he’s in the game. And we have his move.”

Anton leaned back, his head almost touching Sabatine’s hand. He closed his eyes. “I need the proof, Sabe. I need the knife. I can’t fight ghosts and legends with strategy alone. I need something that turns his pat on the shoulder into a brand of treason.”

“You’ll have it,” Sabatine vowed, the words a promise etched in steel. He looked around the magnificent, silent boardroom, at the portraits of proud, dead men. He saw the loneliness, the isolation, the terrible weight of legacy. And he understood, finally, that his role was not just to be Anton’s shield or his partner in the shadows.

It was to be the one person in this entire gilded world who saw the man, not the monument. The one who stood beside the throne, not bowing before it. The proof would come. But for now, in the aftermath of the polished battle, his silent presence was the only victory that mattered. The gilded arena was empty, but Anton was no longer alone in it.

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