He sat alone in his office.
The floor-to-ceiling windows were darkened, the city beyond them muted and distant. The only sounds were the soft tap of keys, the quiet scratch of pen against paper, the steady rhythm of his breathing as documents passed beneath his hands.
Sign. Turn. Review. Sign again.
Each page was handled with controlled precision, as if routine alone could keep the day contained.
None of it pleased him.
It wasn’t the numbers. The projections were solid. The acquisitions had closed without resistance. Every strategic move had landed exactly where it was meant to.
None of it mattered.
What gnawed at him had nothing to do with business.
She hadn’t answered.
Every update he’d received—every “sighting,” every trail that dissolved just before he reached it—had sharpened
