Dante had built his career by distrusting coincidence.
Markets did not fall without pressure. Board members did not change their votes without promises. Competitors did not discover confidential numbers by miracle. In the world that raised him, every effect had a cause, every rumor had a source, and every betrayal had fingerprints even when the hand wore gloves.
By noon, the conference table in his private office had become a battlefield of old dates.
The Laurent Foundation Gala. Five years ago. Guest lists. Hotel invoices. Internal calendars. Driver logs. Security assignments. Temporary staff contracts. Payment authorizations. His own schedule reconstructed minute by minute from emails he had not opened in years.
Dante stood over the documents without touching his coffee.
Across from
