*
The sound of a teacup clicking softly against a china saucer echoed over the receiver:
*”Your wife Clara makes a remarkably charming chamomile tea.”
*
*”She was just telling me how proud she is of your work at the agency.”
*
Arthur Sterling let out a slow, cold, patrician chuckle that sounded like dry birch leaves catching fire:
*”Bring the titanium key to Lakewood, Sebastian.”
*
*”Bring it alone.”
*
*”Or I will have to explain to your little girls… why their father never came home from the office.”
*
*CLICK.
*
The line went dead.
I stood in the center of the executive boardroom.
The eight junior partners stood frozen in petrified silence, watching the new Managing Director of Vanguard Creative Group.
I did not scream.
I did not drop my phone.
I slowly, deliberately reached down to the walnut table.
I picked up my grandfather’s antique brass drafting compass.
I bent the needle point back straight against the edge of the mahogany desk until the steel bit into the wood with an unyielding, permanent snap:
