The heavy oak door of the presidential suite slammed shut with a force that rattled the crystal chandelier overhead. Armand Plemons stormed into the room, tearing off his designer sunglasses and flinging them onto a velvet armchair. The air in the penthouse suite was conditioned to a crisp sixty-eight degrees, but Armand’s face burned with a humid, indignant heat. He was not merely annoyed; he was incandescent with rage, a fury that seemed to radiate from him like heat waves off blacktop in July.
For the past five years, the entertainment industry of the United Dominion had bent the knee to him. He was the sun around which production crews orbited, a celestial body of traffic and revenue. Directors didn't give him notes; he gave directors permission to speak. Scripts were rewritten on the
