BENEDICT
Surviving four hours in a cubicle on the ninth floor of Thorne Group was a special kind of mental torture.
Uncle Julian didn't pull any punches. By noon, I had processed two dozen operations logs, cross-checked shipping invoices, and listened to a senior manager explain basic spreadsheets as if I hadn't grown up in Manhattan. The work itself wasn't hard—I knocked it out in half the time they expected—but sitting under fluorescent lighting in a suit jacket felt like a slow death.
The second three o'clock hit, I ditched the jacket, rolled up my sleeves, and headed straight for the waterfront estate where Maya’s pool party was in full swing.
When I stepped into the backyard, the bass from the speakers was vibrating off the stone patio. The place was packed with local high sch
