"We need a script," I said as the elevator shot upward from the boathouse levels to the main floor. "If we're going to play to the audience under your desk, the performance has to be Oscar-worthy."
Cyprian adjusted his cufflinks, his face regaining the stony mask of the billionaire tycoon. The fury from the boathouse was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp focus.
"I don't act," he said.
"Today you do," I countered, checking the signal strength on my phone. The malware on Elara’s device was holding steady. We could hear the faint rustle of fabric—she was likely driving back to the city. "Lysander thinks he has us cornered. He froze your accounts. He planted a bug. He expects panic."
"So we give him panic."
"We give him chaos," I corrected. "We make him believe the Q3 data is encrypted and
