By ten-thirty, Seraphina's hands wouldn't stop shaking.
She stared at them—her own traitorous hands trembling against the mahogany desk. *Stop it. Just stop.* But they didn't stop. She pressed her palms flat against the cool wood, forced her fingers to straighten, took a breath that did absolutely nothing to calm her down.
The competitive analysis sat open on her laptop. Same paragraph she'd been trying to read for the past fifteen minutes. The words kept blurring together, refusing to make sense no matter how many times she blinked. Her brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton. The migraine had stopped being just pain and had become this all-consuming thing that made thinking impossible.
*Focus. Just focus. You need this for the six PM meeting.*
She couldn't focus. Couldn't think past the pounding. Couldn't read the same sentence one more time without screaming.
