The negotiation took place in a neutral location–a high-rise conference suite in Midtown. Across the table sat the representatives of Vane-Tech. They were smug, expecting the “Songbird” to offer a generous buyout.
Victoria was dissecting their valuation with surgical precision. “Your IP portfolio is inflated,” she argued, pointing to the ledger. “Half of these patents are pending litigation. We’re offering twenty percent below market.”
The Vane CEO chuckled. “Mrs. Croft, you must be confused about how–“
Suddenly, the room tilted.
A wave of dizziness hit Victoria like a physical blow. The fluorescent lights blurred into streaks of white fire. A hot, metallic taste flooded her mouth.
*Not now,* she pleaded internally. *Please, not now.*
She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white. The nausea rolled in her stomach, violent and immediate.
“Excuse me,” Victoria stood up abruptly, her chair scraping loudly. “I need a moment.”
She walked out of the room with as much dignity as she could muster, ignoring William’s concerned look. She made it to the private restroom just in time. She locked the door, sank to her knees, and retched.
She flushed the toilet and leaned back against the cold tile, trembling. She was exhausted. She was stressed. The “CEO Killer”–that’s what they called the pressure that had given Alistair his first stroke. Was it happening to her? Was the crown already crushing her?