The Final Storm

The oppressive scent of old paper and stale ambition hung heavy in the air of the shipping company director's office. A sharp bark from within, followed by a meek 'B-boss?', confirmed what I already knew: Mr. Rikkard Ambrose was in rare form. My husband, ever the subtle one.
“The next part is always rather amusing,” I murmured, a smile playing on my lips as I shared a look with Rikkard, though his face remained a mask of stony determination. "We should tour your companies more often."
“Not for this reason,” he replied, his voice a low rumble, and my smile faltered. He was right. This wasn't a leisure trip. This was a search. A desperate hunt for his missing sister, Adaira.
He strode forward, a force of nature in his impeccably tailored suit, brushing past the trembling secretary and flinging open the director's door. The ensuing squawk of fear and the familiar thud of a man collapsing confirmed our presence. Ah, the Ambrose effect. Never fails.
Once the poor director was revived and the usual threats had been issued, it became clear: Adaira was not here. Just as she hadn't been at the last five shipping companies we'd visited. The clock was ticking, and with every fruitless lead, the shadow of India, and the impending storm Rikkard had orchestrated there, loomed larger.
