The New Hierarchy

The Sterling Group boardroom was a monument to glass-walled vanity, but the air inside had soured. The scent of ozone from the cooling servers mingled with the stale, metallic tang of panic. Marcus Sterling sat at the head of the mahogany table, his posture rigid, his face a map of fractured authority. He looked older than he had an hour ago; the lines around his mouth were no longer signs of seasoned command, but of a man watching his kingdom evaporate in real-time.

Arthur Vance didn't walk to the foot of the table. He walked to the head. He placed his palms flat on the mahogany—a surface he had been forbidden to touch for five years. The wood was cold, solid, and entirely under his

Preview ends here. Subscribe to continue.