We gather in Richard’s home office that evening.
The desk has been cleared of papers. The blinds are drawn. A fire crackles in the fireplace, casting warm shadows across the leather furniture and dark wood.
It feels like a stage set for something theatrical. Something forbidden.
Wells has paperwork spread on a side table – consent forms, documentation, legal frameworks. He’s removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, looking less like a lawyer and more like a man preparing for something physical.
Richard stands by the window, whiskey in hand, still radiating discomfort.
“We don’t have to do this,” he says for the fourth time. “There are other ways to – ”
“Twenty-three million dollars,” I interrupt. “And I want to.”
He turns. Looks at me. “You want to?”
I’ve never been good at hidin
