(Andrew Dole's Point of View)
“Mr. Dole, the Hong Kong call is in ten,”
Veronica’s voice floated through the intercom—soft, precise, unbothered by urgency.
I didn’t lift my eyes from the papers spread before me. “Have them hold.”
A slight pause. “Right away, sir.”
The intercom clicked off. Silence reclaimed the room.
The rye whiskey sat in its crystal tumbler, dark and promising. My fingers brushed the rim, but I didn’t reach for it. Clarity was what I needed, not the fog of liquor.
The boardroom door creaked open.
"Claus walked in like he owned the tension in the room—sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened, jaw set. As both my friend and associate, he never wasted time on formalities."
“We going through with this circus or not?”
"So," he started, dropping a thick folder on
