The day started like any other, with the dull hum of an office building waking up to the rhythm of emails and the clatter of keyboards. I was in my mid-forties, settled into a career that thrived on predictability. A few minutes past nine, I walked into the meeting room, a routine check-in with my team. My assistant, Jane, was there, her eyes darting nervously between the door and the table. “Morning,” I said, setting my coffee down. On the table lay a folder marked ‘Confidential’ in bold red letters. I hesitated, my hand hovering over it. “This came in just an hour ago,” Jane said softly, avoiding eye contact. I opened it slowly, the weight of the contents pressing heavily against my chest. There, among the usual figures and reports, was a name I recognized all too well. Suddenly, the room felt smaller, the air denser. Jane’s voice broke through the tension, “There’s more to this than we initially thought.” As I flipped through the pages, a quiet power play unfolded, one where silence spoke louder than words. I knew I had to tread carefully. The stakes were higher than I could have imagined.
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