The Golden Maze
The champagne in my glass was warm, a dull gold liquid that tasted of copper and old money, and I held it with a hand that had not yet begun to shake. Senator Vane stood at the head of the long mahogany table, his voice cutting through the low hum of the string quartet with the ease of a knife through silk, and he was telling a joke about a border patrol agent who mistook a fence for a wall. I...
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