A Deal With The Billionaire
A single table sat in the middle, and on it lay an old book, leather-bound and faded, its edges eaten by time.
My fingers trembled as I touched it. The cover cracked under my nails, and when I opened it, dust flew up like tiny ghosts. The pages were filled with strange writings, numbers, and sketches of molecules. But halfway through, I stopped.
A page had been torn out.
My chest tightened. Where had I seen that before? I ransacked my brain, flipping through memories like a madwoman, until it hit me.
In Damien’s study, there had been a stray paper I had glimpsed on his desk one night, half-buried under a pile of contracts. It had the same odd handwriting and the same yellowing edges.
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