Alexander Whitmore stopped just inside the wrought-iron gate of his estate in Greenwood Hills, Massachusetts, one hand still resting on the cold metal as if the world might shift if he let go.
The meeting had ended early. A rare occurrence. The boardroom had emptied faster than expected, leaving his head crowded with clauses, acquisitions, and unread messages vibrating silently in his pocket. He had driven home on autopilot, already planning his next call.
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