The conference room on the 54th floor of Marcus’s law firm was a glass-walled box of muted grays and polished steel, suspended in the Los Angeles haze. It was a place designed for the quiet, bloodless execution of fortunes and futures. The silence was absolute, broken only by the whisper of the ventilation system and the distant, insignificant hum of the city below.
Julian was already there when I arrived.
He wasn't the star anymore. He was a ghost haunting the memory of a man I once knew. The designer stubble that had once been meticulously curated now looked like neglect. His eyes, the ones that had charmed millions from giant screens, were hollowed out, bloodshot, and darting around the room like a cornered animal. He was wearing a crumpled linen shirt that might have once cost a thou
