"Julian, honey, what’s wrong?"
The snake in a sundress—Julian’s mistress—watched him pace the length of the full-floor penthouse in Stonebridge. Julian Graves looked like a man who had just swallowed a live coal. He was clutching his phone so hard his knuckles were white, his face a mottled purple of suppressed rage.
"That greedy parasite, Supervisor Wilford," Julian hissed, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers. "On top of everything else, he’s demanding an extra $880,000 as a 'consolation fee.' He calls it a 'stress tax' for having to deal with the OIG’s sudden interest in the Lakeport Development Zone. $880,000 in cash, or he says the EPC records might just 'find their way' to the Joint Investigation Task Force."
The mistress pouted, her eyes wide with a carefully practiced loo
