Grace's office was a monument to her own success, a cold, minimalist space dominated by a vast, obsidian desk. From her throne of Italian leather, she surveyed her empire through the floor-to-ceiling glass, not with pride, but with a sense of cold ownership. The quarterly reports lay open, numbers bleeding red. Her response was not concern, but a sharp, contemptuous smile. She pressed the intercom, her voice a silken threat that bypassed her assistant and went straight to the head of the underperforming department. "David. My office. Now. And bring your team's resignations. Save me the trouble of drafting them myself." She leaned back, idly admiring her reflection in the darkened monitor. The downturn wasn't a crisis; it was an opportunity—a chance to cull the weak, to trim the dead weight with surgical, merciless precision. Empathy was a currency she had never traded in. Fear, however, was a tool she wielded with exquisite, baneful skill. Let them whisper about her in the breakroom. Their terror was the engine of her control, and their failures were simply fuel for her next, more brutal, ascent.