Clarissa Townsend stood by the expansive glass window of her private lounge, her gaze fixed on the estate below. From this height, the world appeared orderly, controlled, and entirely predictable—exactly how she preferred it. Her reflection stared back at her, elegant and composed, showing no trace of the tension that had gripped the boardroom earlier. Yet her eyes betrayed her; they were sharp, alert, and constantly calculating. She reached for a glass of wine and took a slow, deliberate sip. Mercy Townsend. The name hung in her mind, Refusing to dissipate. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “So, this is how it happens,” she murmured. It hadn’t been planned or expected, but it was here nonetheless. Setting the glass down, she picked up her phone. The call connected after the second ring. “Are you alone?” she asked. After a brief pause, she added, “Good.” Her tone was even, but it carried an underlying edge that demanded absolute attention. “I’ve seen the situation firsthand. It
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