the runway.
Miriam looked up at me.
“He just called you dead weight in front of half the city.”
“I heard him.”
“You’re remarkably calm.”
I took another sip of coffee.
“I had twelve years to stop being surprised by him.”
On the screen, Vanessa lifted her champagne glass.
“To winning.”
Then Arthur Bell appeared.
Daniel’s smile widened immediately.
Arthur was seventy-two years old, silver-haired, impeccably dressed, and frightening in the quiet, courteous way certain powerful men become after decades of never needing to raise their voices.
Years earlier, Arthur
