Dominic at the WindowDominic Sloane had a rule about the office after hours.He did not pace. Pacing was something men did when they had lost control of their thinking, and he had built an entire career on never losing control of his thinking. So he stood. At the window, jacket off, the city spread out below him the way it always was at this hour – lit and indifferent and continuous, doing what cities do regardless of what any specific man is working through on the forty-second floor.His phone was in his hand.He had not made a call in forty minutes. His attorneys had left at seven. Marcus, his longest-serving associate, had paused at the door on his way out and said, “You need anything before I go?” and Dominic had said no, and Marcus had nodded in the particular way Marcus nodded when he knew better than to push, and the office had gone quiet.That was forty minutes ago.He was thinking about Mara.Not the way he usually thought about Mara now – not the governance exposure, not Ir
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