Maxime stood frozen for a moment, staring at Dante as if he'd just been slapped in front of a crowd. His lips parted, but no words came out. The icy arrogance radiating from Dante was like a blade, sharp and deliberate, and when Maxime turned to glance at Anastasia—the woman who had just snatched everything from under his nose—her calm smile only twisted the knife deeper. His jaw ticked, his knuckles whitened, and without another word, he pivoted to the white-haired man seated at the table.
Rogers met Maxime's fiery gaze with a smug, aged grin, clearly enjoying the show. Maxime scoffed and stormed out of the boardroom, his footsteps echoing across the marble floor like a declaration of war. He hadn't anticipated Dante—of all people—to get involved. And certainly not like this. This was supposed to be his moment, his power grab. But instead, it was Dante Montgomery who had seized the crown.
