The air in the gallery was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that makes your skin prickle before you even know why. Two women stood at the head of a massive live-edge wooden table, their postures screaming conflict without a single word exchanged yet. The woman in the butter-yellow suit, adorned with sparkling rhinestone trim along every seam, had her arms crossed like a fortress wall. Her expression was pure ice — lips pressed tight, eyes narrowed, radiating authority mixed with barely contained fury. Beside her, the woman in the soft pink blouse looked like she'd just been caught stealing cookies from the jar. Her hands hovered nervously over a rolled-up scroll on the table, fingers trembling slightly as if afraid to touch it again. She wore a lanyard with an ID badge dangling near her waist, a subtle reminder that this wasn't some casual meetup — this was corporate territory, where hierarchy mattered and mistakes could cost careers. Behind them, a crowd had gathered — men in tailored suits, women in elegant blouses and skirts, all watching with bated breath. Among them stood a man in a striking teal double-breasted suit, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp as a blade. He didn't speak, didn't move, yet everyone seemed to orbit around him, waiting for his cue. Another woman, dressed in cream with a black velvet bow tied neatly at her throat, watched with wide, worried eyes — her expression shifting between confusion and dawning horror. It was clear something monumental was about to unfold, and <span style="color:red;">Oops! The CEO's My Baby's Daddy</span> was going to be the catalyst. The woman in yellow finally broke the silence, her voice low but cutting through the room like glass.