The champagne tasted like everything Julian Sterling wanted to be: expensive, effervescent, and entirely unreal.
1925 had arrived in New York like a freight train made of music and light. Jazz poured from the speakeasies on 52nd Street. Flappers danced the Charleston in penthouse apartments overlooking Central Park. And on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, money moved like water in a flood—fast, unpredictable, and capable of drowning a man before he knew what had hit him. Julian Sterling stood at...
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