The Golden Myth
The champagne flute is cold in your hand, the condensation slicking your palm like a thin layer of sweat. You stand in the center of the Grand Hall, surrounded by the hum of two hundred people talking about quarterly earnings and stock options. The chandelier above casts a hard, white light that makes everyone’s skin look pale and taut. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, and you want...
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