Sloane Delaney's office at Lumineer Tech was designed for control.
Dark oak panels lined the walls like armor, every edge in the space precise, every surface untouched by clutter. Floor-to-ceiling glass offered a sweeping view of the skyline, but the blinds were always half-drawn—he preferred shadow over spectacle. A single bonsai tree sat in a black porcelain dish at the corner of his obsidian desk. It was the only organic object in the room.
And today, it was mocking him.
He blinked at the projection on his screen. Something about quarterly reporting and international patent filings. His mind refused to process any of it. Numbers blurred. Words dissolved.
"You've read the same sentence eight times," said Honey, his assistant, voice crisp with concern.
Sloane didn't look up. "I'm multitasking."
Honey arched an unimpressed brow. "You don't multitask."
He finally turned, lifting one brow. "You're saying I'm incapable?"
