Maxwell Corporation wasn't known for its leniency. Anyone who stirred trouble in front of their gates usually disappeared by lunchtime. One couldn't just show up and cause a scene unless that person had a death wish or connections so powerful they were untouchable.
He should turn back. Yet curiosity tugged at him until he edged closer through the murmuring onlookers.
"What's going on?" someone whispered near him.
"Some rich idiot's having a meltdown," another replied.
"I heard it's one of the Hewitts."
"No way. HW's?"
Neville frowned. Through the gaps in the crowd, he finally caught a clear view—and froze.
Mick Hewitt.
The second young master of HW Corporation stood in the center like some fallen prince, his expensive suit disheveled, his pale green eyes bright with fury and madness. His tie hung loose, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.
