Issac Monroe stood amidst the wreckage of the luxury suite, his chest barely heaving, but his mind swirling with a mixture of genuine amusement and dark, seething contempt. He found himself actually laughing—a dry, mirthless sound that echoed against the shattered remains of the mahogany door.
The audacity of it was truly staggering. A single face—a face sculpted by expensive surgeons, smoothed by chemical peels, and painted by a small army of makeup artists—was now being categorized as a "loss for the entire nation." He looked at the sniveling figure on the floor and then at the trembling female assistant who had uttered that ridiculous claim. He wondered, with a biting edge of irony, if the world had truly gone mad.
Did this face possess the divine power to make a country wealthy or it
