The conference room that had once felt like a battlefield of negotiations now buzzed with something entirely different—laughter.
The deal was done. The ink was drying. The first $3.75 billion had landed in Sentinel BioTech's accounts. And now, for the first time in months—maybe longer—Matthew Borja and his team allowed themselves to exhale.
A long table at the far end of the facility had been cleared out and re-purposed for the night. Takeout boxes from the best steakhouse within military radius were spread out between whiskey bottles, bourbon glasses, and half-eaten slices of cake someone had miraculously managed to smuggle onto base.
Angel leaned against the wall, arms crossed, sipping a glass of Scotch she didn't even try to pretend she liked. "This tastes like gasoline."
Matthew, sitting nearby, chuckled. "That's because it is gasoline. The expensive kind."
