Elias Pov
The office smelled like stale air and the metallic tang of panic. My father's study had always been a fortress heavy mahogany, expensive scotch, that atmosphere of absolute, untouchable control. But today, the air felt thin.
The numbers on the tablet he'd shoved across the desk didn't care about the prestige of the Thorne Group or the forty years of history on these walls.
They were bad. Not "downward trend" bad. They were disastrous, undeniable, public-embarrassment bad.
"Eight weeks," my father said, staring out the window, his back to me. He only ever delivered bad news this way like he was talking to someone beneath his pay grade. "That's the runway. Eight weeks before this becomes something the press can actually smell."
I looked at the numbers, and the breath caught in my throat. He wasn't wrong. The stock had been hemorrhaging value ever since the engagement party.
