The sun striking the oak desk should feel like a victory, but the red text on the monitor is a wound. A three-million-dollar wire from her lead investor has gone cold, leaving the Rourke Hudson’s grand opening three weeks out and completely unmoored. Tamsin leans back, the silk of her cream trousers catching the light. Not today. I did not work ten years for today to be the end.
Her phone remains silent, a dead weight beside her notebook. Then, the double-thud of the front door echoes through the lobby. A courier in charcoal grey appears at her office threshold, his presence too sharp for a casual delivery. He doesn't offer a greeting, only a clinical nod as he reaches into a slim leather bag. He holds the solution to her bankruptcy, bound in a document that smells of cedar and expensive ink.
He steps forward, his shadow stretching long across her floorplans. Tamsin watches his gloved fingers, the silence in the room tightening until she can hear the ticking of the clock on the mantle. Everything she owns depends on the signature waiting inside that paper. A heavy manila envelope slides across the polished oak desk from the courier's hand.
