Alexandra Wolfe had three hours to save her company from the woman who orchestrated her pregnancy.The thought sat heavy in her chest as the city outside her windows remained dark, quiet in that rare hour before dawn when New York seemed to hold its breath. At five in the morning, her dining table had become a war room.Laptops glowed against the shadows, screens crowded with legal documents and financial projections. Coffee steamed in untouched mugs, the bitter smell hanging in the air. Corporate bylaws lay spread beside shareholder agreements, voting procedures flagged and highlighted. Legal pads filled with Marcus’s precise handwriting formed neat stacks, each page a calculated attempt to anticipate Eleanor Moretti’s next move.Maya stood at the head of the table, blazer discarded, sleeves rolled up. Her eyes were sharp despite the hour, posture rigid with focus.“Emergency votes require a simple majority,” she said, tapping the table lightly with her pen. “Eleanor’s motion hinges
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