Scott’s office was all glass and dark wood, the kind of space that felt expensive without needing to announce it. The early morning light fell across the floors and desks, catching the dust on the polished surfaces, and the hum of the air conditioning carried over quiet phone calls from the team. There was an order to it, a rhythm of people arriving, leaving, typing, talking, that suggested control. But control was missing this morning.Talia was already there when he walked in. She stood near the window in cream silk, one hand gripping the back of a chair, the other holding a printed photo torn from the blogs. Randy outside Freeda’s office, Freeda behind the glass, the caption slicing across the bottom like a guillotine:She still came to the door.Talia turned before Scott reached his desk. Her eyes were sharp, unforgiving. “You let this happen.”Scott placed his keys down deliberately. “No. Randy did.” “That distinction matters to you,” she said, cold, measured. “Not to the board
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