The knock at the door was precise three times, measured, the particular knock of someone who had learned that the difference between an interruption and an entrance was the confidence with which you announced yourself.
They all turned.
Marcus stepped into the office, Julian's assistant, a man of thirty-one who had been at Julian's side for six years and had developed, across those six years, the particular competence of someone who understands that his primary job is to make the person he works for better at being themselves.
He carried a file. He looked at Julian, then Amara, then Madam Vale, and then back at Julian, and his expression said what his words then confirmed.
"This is not good." He crossed to the desk. Set the file down. "If this continues through the news cycle if we don't contain it before markets open tomorrow morning,"
