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The following Monday, Marcus calls me into his office at seven thirty in the morning.

He looks like he’s aged a decade in eight days. On the desk between us sits a thick folder embossed with what looks like a coat of arms.

The King Corporation.

“I called in every favor I’ve ever been owed,” Marcus says. “They’re as desperate as we are. Every other firm in this city turned them down.”

“Because of the leak?”

“Because of Julian King. And because of his son.” He taps the folder. “You saw the Anchorstone news?”

I saw it on a muted television on a rooftop, the night I— I shut that door firmly in my head.

“Corinth outbid them by a quarter of a point.”

“Because somebody handed Corinth the King Corporation’s internal valuation model. The board is out for blood. The stock is down twelve percent. They meet this morning, and Julian King wants our best person in that room.” Marcus looks at me. “If they go down, we go down. This is the only account keeping our lights on, Izzy.”

He hesitates, then makes himself say the rest. “And understand what you’re walking into. If this fails, the Kings will need someone to blame, and a firm the FBI raided last week is the easiest scapegoat in New York. Your name goes on every statement. If King Corp sinks, the headline will be that Archer sank it, and they’ll print your name under it. Julian King has enough friends in this city to make sure you never work here again.”

I read the file in the back of the car service.

Julian King: CEO for three decades, known for chewing up executives and spitting out the bones. Three sons. Aaron, the middle son, is CFO. Jesse, the youngest, has no official title and an impressive collection of tabloid headlines.

The oldest son is the COO and heir apparent. Sebastian King. The business press calls him the “Ice King,” and according to a profile I find buried in the file, so does his own staff.

The profile is not flattering. Three chief marketing officers gone in two years. An HR complaint about “a hostile atmosphere” that was quietly settled. A former VP, quoted anonymously: He never raises his voice. He doesn’t need to. You just leave his office knowing you’re finished. There’s no photo except a grainy shot from a charity gala, his face turned from the camera.

I flip to the asset summary. Logistics. Cybersecurity. Real estate. And a hospitality division, its flagship property in bold at the top of the page.

THE SOVEREIGN HOTEL, MIDTOWN MANHATTAN.

My hand goes still on the paper.

A rooftop bar. A bartender who looked terrified. A manager who appeared out of thin air. A private elevator that went to the top floor without a key card.

You in finance?

Something like that.

The car pulls up to a monolith of glass and steel, and my stomach drops all the way to the pavement.

The King Corporation owns the hotel where I spent Saturday night.

And somewhere in this building is the man who owns that elevator.

5

SEBASTIAN

Earlier that morning…

Arthur Vance and Jerry Jenkins are waiting for me in conference room B.

I don’t sit. Sitting implies a conversation.

“The valuation model was your responsibility,” I tell Vance, head of mergers and acquisitions. Then to Jenkins, our chief security officer: “And the system that was supposed to protect it was yours.”

“Sebastian, we’re still running the logs,” Jenkins starts. “We don’t know yet that⁠—”