PREVIEW

... ick with the residue of a corporate execution. Preston didn’t wait for the silence to last before he launched his offensive. He leaned back in his leather chair, his eyes raking over me with a slow, deliberate contempt that he had spent years perfecting.

"You know, if someone walked in off the street," Preston began, his voice a smooth drawl of practiced superiority, "they’d think Father hired a gangster to sit in on the Hendrix crisis. The suit barely helps, Cassian."

He gesture ...

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