Myra
The "Legacy Torte" sat on the counter, its rich, bittersweet chocolate glaze gleaming under the candlelight, but the appetite had completely left the room. It felt like a prop from a different story, a celebratory centerpiece for a victory that had just been revealed as a hollow shell.
I looked at Tony. He hadn’t moved. He was still standing by the prep island, his large hands gripping the edge of the stainless steel so hard his knuckles were white. The suit that had made him look so delicious minutes ago now looked like a costume for a play that had just been canceled. All that effort to look the part of the successor, and the stage was being dismantled right in front of him.
The silence wasn't sweet anymore. It was hollow, echoing off the high ceilings like a bell that had stoppe
