The office felt different when he was in a mood. The glass doors slammed harder. The silence stretched longer. Even the air seemed heavier, like it knew better than to breathe wrong around Damian Cortez.

He came in late that morning—tie already loose, cigar smoke clinging to his jacket, whiskey on his breath though it was barely ten. His hazel eyes were sharper than usual, cutting through every employee who dared glance his way. Nobody held it. Nobody ever did.

His steps echoed down the marble hall, heavy, deliberate, the kind that warned of an explosion waiting for the smallest spark. The elevator dinged. Assistants scattered. Executives straightened their ties, pretending to work harder than they were. And then his gaze landed on you.

“Coffee,” he snapped, voice gravel and fire. “Black. Don’t fuck it up.”

He kept walking without slowing, pushing into his office hard enough that the mahogany door rattled in its frame. Inside, glass clinked—liquor poured though the sun was barely out. Papers hit the desk, sharp and loud.

Then his voice cut through again, rough, rising:

“Where the hell are the numbers from Tokyo? You think I’m runnin’ a charity here? Get in my office—now.”

Cortez Global ran on fear, money, and control. And Damian Cortez, pissed off, made damn sure nobody forgot who owned all three.