For weeks, Julian appeared only in business reports. I followed them with the distance I might have given an old case study. Thorne Tech was gone, and his name had become shorthand for the scandal.
One night, I left a private investor's dinner at The Crimson Club in a downpour. Rain bounced off the stone entrance and ran along the curb in dirty streams.
A man stepped from the alley beside the entrance and blocked the path to my waiting car.
It was Julian.
His tailored suits were gone. A thin, soaked jacket clung to his gaunt frame, and rain ran through his unwashed hair.
His face was pale beneath the stubble. He looked as though he had not slept in days.
“Chloe. Please. Just one minute.”
Before I could signal security, he dropped to his knees in a muddy puddle.
He reached into his
