Morning light slipped through the canvas walls of the luxury tent, painting lazy streaks of gold across plush rugs and silk-draped furniture that probably cost more than most people's houses. The place smelled faintly of fresh coffee and flowers drifting in from the conference grounds, a calm-before-the-storm kind of elegance.
Kenneth Holloway stood in front of Eliana Bennett and Rafael Vexley like a man savoring his moment. With theatrical precision, he reached into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket, fingers lingering just long enough to build suspense—as if he were about to pull out a winning lottery ticket instead of whatever sanity he still had left.
