Four cents. That was the entire merit bonus Miles Keaton received after sixteen unbroken years at Red Haven Turbine Works.

The second floor of Red Haven Turbine Works belonged to a completely different century than the floor below it.

Where the shop floor was raw steel, concrete, and heavy noise, the administrative wing was lined with dark mahogany paneling, thick navy carpets, and glass displays holding antique scale models of steam engines.

When Miles pushed open the frosted glass doors of the grand boardroom, the room went dead silent.

At the far end of a twenty-foot conference table sat eight men in expensive dark suits. They were the legal and technical audit team from Apex Energy, led by a sharp-eyed, gray-haired executive named Harrison Vance.

Standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the snow-covered parking lot was Celeste Winthrop. She held a crystal glass of sparkling water, her posture as stiff and unyielding as ever.

When she saw Miles walk in—dressed in his faded work shirt with his name stitched over his chest—her brow creased with brief, supreme irritation.

"Arthur," Celeste said, ignoring Miles completely and addressing the plant manager. "Why did this take twenty minutes? Mr. Vance and his legal counsel have a flight back to Boston at seven."

"Ms. Winthrop," Pendelton began, his voice shaking, "this is Miles Keaton. He's our Lead Metrologist and Quality Assurance Inspector."

Harrison Vance immediately stood up, offering a thick, calloused hand across the mahogany table. "Mr. Keaton. Good to meet you. I've been reading your technical reports on the Mark-IX alloy stress tests. Impressive work. Your micro-fracture analysis is cleaner than what we get from the navy yards."

Miles took Vance's hand, giving it a single, firm shake. "Thank you, Mr. Vance."

Celeste stepped forward, her heels clicking loudly against the hardwood surrounding the rug. She tapped her gold pen against a leather-bound contract resting in the center of the table.

"Now that Mr. Keaton is here," Celeste said briskly, "we can execute Exhibit D—the master QA certification—and finalize the preliminary acquisition framework. Miles, sit down and sign page forty-two."

She didn't offer him a chair. She simply pointed at the paper like a supervisor handing a mop to a janitor.

Miles didn't move toward the chair. He stood at the edge of the mahogany table, resting his broad hands on his yellow folder.

"I haven't reviewed the final production logs for the last batch of Mark-IX housings," Miles said.

Celeste let out a short, quiet laugh—a sound like glass breaking on ice. "The production logs were signed off by plant management yesterday, Miles. Your formal review is an administrative formality."

"Not on my bench it isn't," Miles replied, looking straight into her eyes. "A manager signs for budget. I sign for structural integrity. If a housing fails on an offshore rig, Apex doesn't sue Arthur Pendelton. They come after the person whose stamp is on the forge certificate."

Harrison Vance nodded slowly, exchanging a sharp glance with his lead engineer. "He's right, Ms. Winthrop. The federal regulatory framework requires the lead inspector's personal sign-off, independent of management oversight. That's why we made it a mandatory condition precedent for the seven-hundred-and-twenty-million-dollar wire."

Celeste's pristine mask slipped for a fraction of a second. Her dark eyes narrowed into two deadly slits as she glared at Miles.

"Miles," Celeste said, her voice dropping an octave into a low, threatening purr. "Step into the hallway with me for a moment."

"I'm fine right here," Miles said.

"Now, Mr. Keaton," she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Miles didn't flinch, but he followed her out into the quiet corridor, where the mahogany paneling reflected the dull gray light from the blizzard outside.

As soon as the heavy boardroom door swung shut behind them, Celeste turned on him with the speed of a striking viper.

"Do you have any idea what you are doing?" she hissed, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. "You are an hourly employee at a facility that is five minutes away from bankruptcy. I am closing a deal that will secure the financial future of Winthrop Capital and line this entire county with capital."

"You're selling a plant for seven hundred and twenty million dollars," Miles said calmly.

"Yes! And you are standing in this hallway playing games over shop-floor ego!" She stepped closer, her perfume sharp and chemical in the tight space. "I saw the way you looked at me in the cafeteria. If you think you can leverage this audit to throw a temper tantrum over your performance review, you are severely mistaken."

Miles reached into his shirt pocket. He pulled out the four-cent voucher and held it between his two thick fingers.

"Four cents, Ms. Winthrop," Miles said softly. "Sixteen years. Forty thousand hours of keeping this plant's reputation clean. And you gave me four cents to prove to the floor that you held the whip."

Celeste didn't deny it. She didn't offer a fake apology. She simply folded her arms and looked at him with icy disdain.

"You are an expense line, Mr. Keaton," she said flatly. "You reshape metal. I reshape companies. You are worth what the market allows me to pay you, and not a penny more. Now you are going to walk back into that room, pick up that pen, and sign Exhibit D."

"And if I don't?" Miles asked.

Celeste smiled—a slow, terrifying expression of pure executive power.

"If you don't, I will fire you for gross insubordination within the next sixty seconds," she whispered. "You will lose your pension. You will lose your healthcare. I will blacklist your QA stamp with every manufacturing registry from Chicago to Atlanta. You will never set foot in a machine shop again."

She leaned in until her eyes were inches from his.

"You have seventy-two hours before this deal expires, Miles. You sign that paper today, or you leave this building with nothing."

Miles looked down at the four-cent slip in his hand. Then he looked at Celeste Winthrop.