Damon
The morning sun filtered through the tinted glass of my Maserati as I pulled into the underground lot beneath Donovan’s Capital’s headquarters. The familiar rumble of the engine settled into a purr before I cut it off, silence folding around me.
I checked my watch. 9:17am. Early enough to catch Mike before his day spiralled into back-to-back crises, late enough that the interns wouldn’t be clogging up the espresso machine in the executive lounge.
The elevator ride to his floor was quiet. Polished brass mirrors reflected my clean-cut navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the throat, and the faint scar across my jawline, a reminder from years back, another life I rarely revisited. The doors slid open to reveal Donovan Capital’s minimalist reception, all slate floors, white marble cou
