In many ways, Alex had become exactly what the world calls successful. At thirty-five, he was a self-made tech billionaire, the kind of man profiled in glossy magazines and quoted in business journals. He moved through airports without waiting, ate meals prepared by other people’s hands, and signed papers that shifted markets.
Yet that night, none of it soothed him.
A rare Scotch sat in his palm, untouched, as if even the finest things had lost their flavor. The quiet inside the car felt heavier than usual, pressing in on him with a weight he could not explain away.
One name returned, uninvited and persistent.
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