By four-forty-five on Friday afternoon, a torrential autumn rain lashed against the thirty-fourth-floor panoramic windows of Davenport & Cross, turning the distant waters of Elliott Bay into a churning slate-gray expanse. Inside Conference Room A, the tension was palpable, thick with the electric gravity of a deadline expiring. Arthur Davenport sat at the center of the table, his gold pocket watch resting open beside his Montblanc pen. Beside him sat…
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