The atmosphere in the Savoy's ballroom had shifted from professional admiration to a thick, suffocating dread. The applause had died an abrupt death, replaced by a low, frantic murmuring that sounded like a nest of disturbed hornets. Sir Alistair stood frozen, the microphone trembling in his hand as he stared at the man who controlled the purse strings of his greatest ambition.
A bead of sweat traced its way down his temple despite the ballroom's carefully controlled temperature. He had spent three years bringing this project to life, and now it threatened to unravel in mere moments.
"What exactly do you mean by that, sir?" Alistair asked, his voice strained and hollow, each word requiring visible effort. The confidence that had carried him through the presentation had evaporated entirely. "You just witnessed the performance. The entire room saw it. It was breathtaking… transcendent, even. Who, in your estimation, shouldn't be here?"
