Time is a relentless thief, slipping through one’s fingers like sand in an hourglass, indifferent to the desperation of men.
Three days had vanished in a blur of frantic phone calls and failed negotiations. Today was the final day before the deadline of the Suncrest Holdings contract. The sword of Damocles, in the form of a $2 billion termination penalty, hung by a frayed thread over the heads of the Hunt family.
Inside the presidential suite of the Imperial Palace Hotel, the atmosphere was no longer one of arrogant luxury. It felt like a bunker in the final hours of a lost war. Spencer Hunt sat on a velvet armchair, but his posture was far from relaxed. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was the color of charcoal, etched with a level of stress that made his expensive tailored suit lo
