Deadly Secrets

Chapter 30: Keeping it Classy

Ten men fidgeted while sitting at the long glass table of the conference room. A few talked amongst themselves in hushed tones, while others typed away at  their laptops, staring intently at the LED screens. No matter what anyone said or did, they couldn't shake off the unbearable sense of foreboding at the back of everybody's mind.

At the head of the table sat Fernando Rubair. Both of his hands were placed casually on the table: the fingers of the right drummed impatiently against the cool glass surface while the other's ring-embellished fingers kept flexing repeatedly.

On his right sat his son, Maximilian, who was dressed professionally—much like the other members of the conglomeration—in a blue Hugo Boss suit and tie, and his hair was neatly combed back into a man-bun. The stale air of restlessness translated into Maximilian's constant shifting in his seat. Albeit his movements were fractional, his paranoia led him to believe that everyone's gaze and judgement were upon him. He loosened the collar of his dress shirt.

The fact that he was sitting in close proximity to his father didn't help with his uneasiness, but as the heir to an empire, he didn't really have a choice in his seating arrangements. He watched his father from the corner of his eye—even though the man's attention wasn't directed towards him, he could still feel the displeasure emanating from the same green eyes he had unfortunately inherited.

That was the one thing Max hated the most. No matter how much he tried to be a different man from his father, the fact of the matter was that he was the blood of his blood, his kindred. Max would always resemble him, be it in his appearance or seemingly innocuous gestures, whether he liked it or not.

Due to their differences, their relationship was like a Beetle trying to navigate a rocky road. However after their last conversation, it had punctured a tire and veered off a cliff, bursting into flames for good measure.

At the far side of the table, cowering behind abnormally thick round glasses and a stack of notes was the head chemist. His balding head bobbed up and down as he kept fiddling with the remote for the projector, and he turned is myopic gaze towards the screen, on which a red error symbol kept blinking unabashedly.

Rubair was on the verge of blowing a fuse.

Finally—maybe it was his guardian angel that suggested this—the scientist managed to switch off the projector and place the remote on the table, admitting defeat at his technological incompetency.

He timidly cleared his throat, straightening the stack of paper on his desk. Somehow, and Max nearly facepalmed himself because of this, the poor man managed to lose his grip on the stack, dropping them onto the floor.

A sudden boom came from the head of the table.

"Enough!" Rubair roared, smashing his fist down with enough force to leave a hairline crack.

Max mused, sadistically, that if his father had hit any harder, the table would've smashed, cutting his hand like minced meat.

A sudden hush fell upon the room. Nobody dared to look at Rubair, nor even think about him. Instead, everyone turned to look at the culprit, who was on the verge of bursting into tears.

Rubair pinched the bridge of his nose then dragged his hand down his face, "Time is money, and you're wasting it!" He breathed heavily, attempting to control his rage. "Proceed, with or without it.

The head researcher nodded earnestly, adjusting his glasses and clasping his hands together in front of him, "Unfortunately, I have some bad news sir," The man ducked his head, bracing himself for another onslaught.

Both Rubair and his son's eyes widened simultaneously. "Well? I'm waiting!" He flared up again when the man didn't say anything.

"It appears—that the thieves have stolen more than just the prototypes," he began, and as soon as he said this, the room erupted with bewildered mutters.