The air in the Moreau Industries boardroom was thick with tension, a palpable current of suspicion and ambition swirling around the mahogany table. Henri, his face set in a mask of grim determination, stood at the head of the room. He no longer carried himself with the unassuming air of a gardener; the CEO, the rightful heir, was undeniably present. Isabelle sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, a silent offering of strength. She might have felt out of place, a florist amidst titans of industry, but her intuition, honed by a lifetime of observing the subtle language of petals and thorns, was sharper than ever.