“The concrete trucks will turn around at the gate.”

“The permits will be tied up in municipal litigation for the next ten years.”

“If you try to push me out of my own project, I will let Harbor Point sit as a concrete skeleton by the beach.”

He looked back at Caleb Rhodes, expecting a nod of agreement, a sign of solidarity from his main financial partner.

Caleb did not blink.

He slowly stood up from his seat at the center table, smoothing the front of his charcoal suit jacket.

The room fell completely silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the distant crash of the Newport Beach tide outside.

Caleb walked toward the edge of the stage, his leather shoes clicking softly against the polished hardwood.

“You won’t be freezing any accounts, Grant,” Caleb said, his voice calm and carrying easily without a microphone.

Grant stiffened, his hand freezing on the podium.

“Caleb, we have an agreement,” Grant said, his tone dropping to a hurried whisper that still caught on the live audio feed.