The crisp sound of a pen tapping against a glass desk filled the quiet room, each tap echoing with controlled frustration. Julian Ashcroft sat in his sleek, ultra-modern office in Manhattan, his jaw tight as he stared at the blank whiteboard in front of him. For a man who prided himself on always being ten steps ahead, defeat wasn't just rare—it was unacceptable. And Ava Lee's victory at the convention? That had been a public humiliation he couldn't let go unanswered.
"Sir?" a voice interrupted, cautious but clear. Julian didn't need to look up to recognize his assistant, Bethany, standing nervously by the door. She was holding a tablet, her usual confidence tempered by the mood in the room.
"Did you find it?" Julian asked, his voice sharp and devoid of its usual charm.
Bethany hesitated. "Define 'it,' sir."
Julian's eyes flicked up, narrowing. "The angle, Bethany. The weakness. Everyone has one."