The offices of Blackwell & Carter occupied the thirty-second floor of a building that prioritized gravitas over glamour. Unlike the aggressive glass needles of the newer financial district, this structure was built of heavy, darkened stone that looked as though it had been quarried from the foundation of the city itself.
It was a building that had weathered market crashes, political upheavals, and a century of shifting tides without losing its composure. To Jake, it felt less like a place of business and more like a fortress—a quiet, immovable authority that didn't need a digital ticker-tape to prove its relevance.
When the elevator doors hissed open, the atmosphere shifted immediately. The air here didn't have the sterile, filtered quality of the brokerage; instead, it carried the faint, comforting scent of old paper, leather-bound books, and dark-roast coffee.
