The Met's rooftop garden glowed under warehouse‑style floodlights, casting long shadows across sculpted hedges and marble busts. A soft breeze carried the distant hum of post‑gala chatter and the glittering echo of distant saxophone. Lena Rivers stood beside a wrought‑iron bench, the city's lights dancing on her sequined fox‑ear cuffs. In one hand she held a slim flash drive; in the other, a tumbler of iced jasmine tea.
Damien Blackwood approached, unbuttoning his overcoat to reveal a tailored midnight‑blue suit. His expression was tense, eyes flicking between Lena's steady gaze and the drive she offered.
“You brought it?" he asked quietly, voice almost lost in the wind.
Lena nodded. “Every document: audit logs, shell‑company invoices, and donor‑matching records. All timestamped, cross‑
