The packing tape dispenser screams a jagged, plastic protest against the cardboard. Sloane Whitaker smooths the clear film over the box's seam with a thumb, her movements as precise as if she were pinning a silk corsage. Late afternoon sunlight bars the floor of her Manhattan office, catching the dust motes dancing over the ghost of a once-thriving empire. Outside, the city hums with the frantic energy of people who still have somewhere to go.
"That’s the last of the vendor contracts," Sloane says, her voice a calm, Park Avenue velvet. Margot doesn't look up from her own stack of files. Her older sister’s chignon is fraying at the edges, a rare crack in the Whitaker veneer. Margot slides a heavy, cream-colored envelope across the desk, the weight of the paper alone suggesting a budget that could save their firm's lease. One last chance, or one last mistake?
"He’s a walk-in, Sloane. No referral, no portfolio review. Just a blank check and a demand for discretion," Margot says, her eyes darting to the door. Sloane shakes her head, her pearl studs catching the dying light. She is done with the whims of the elite. She reaches for the next box, but the sound of the elevator chime stops her cold. The heavy frosted glass door begins to swing inward as a tall, imposing shadow fills the frame.
