Four hours later, the toxic, suffocating noise of Manhattan was nothing but a distant memory, completely swallowed by the deep, rhythmic roar of the Atlantic Ocean. The Wolfe private beach estate sat on a secluded stretch of the Hamptons coastline, a breathtaking sanctuary of glass, natural cedar, and white sand hidden behind miles of private dunes and razor-wire security perimeters. Here, the air smelled of salt, wild beach roses, and clean, unadulterated freedom. Adrian Wolfe stood at the edge of the wrap-around wooden deck, looking out over the endless expanse of gray-blue water. The Brioni suit, the silk tie, and the heavy old-money armor of the Chief Executive had been completely discarded. He wore nothing but a loose, oversized cream linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and a pair of dark casual trousers. His long, midnight-black hair was slightly windblown, his usually rigid, aristocratic face completely relaxed in the soft afternoon light. In his massi
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