Sloane hated the dress. It was a sleeveless black sheath she had bought seven years ago for the Oracle closing dinner — back when she thought she was rich. Now, it was just a uniform for a war she didn't want to fight. She adjusted the silk shawl over her left shoulder, trying to drape it artfully to conceal the bulky black plastic of her medical brace.

Sloane forced a smile. She wasn't here as a guest; she was here as a prop. Reid had insisted she attend to "interface" with potential investors. Behind Reid, trailing him like a hungry remora, was a young man in a suit that cost more than Sloane's car. He was laughing too hard at something a senator said, his eyes darting around the room, hungry for status. Sloane didn't know his name — he was just another ambitious MBA clone Reid had conscripted to fill out the room count — but his presence added to the frantic energy of the night.

"There she is," Reid said. His voice changed instantly, the tension replaced by a sugary, terrifying warmth. A woman was gliding toward them through the crowd of senators and defense contractors. She was small, wire thin, and she moved with the severe, toe-out gait of a retired ballerina. She wore a silver gown that looked like mercury and enough diamonds to fund a Series A round. Elena Trintell. The diplomat's daughter. The chairwoman. "Darling," Reid said, stepping forward to kiss her cheek. Elena didn't lean in. She offered her cheek like a queen offering a ring to be kissed, her eyes already looking past him to someone more important over his shoulder.

They reached the terrace doors. A silver-haired man was holding court with a circle of admirers. He wore a tuxedo with a shawl collar that draped perfectly over his broad shoulders, standing in sharp contrast to Reid's rigid tailoring. He held a scotch with the ease of a man who owned its distillery. "Roman!" Reid shouted, his voice rising a notch. "So good to see you." Roman Tate turned. He had the tanned, weather-beaten face of a sportsman — a man who spent his time on golf courses and in hunt fields — and the eyes of a shark. "Reid," Tate said, offering a lazy hand. "And who is this?" "Sloane Alexander," Reid said, pushing her forward. "My lead architect. She's the one building the logic for the… logistics projects." Tate looked at Sloane. His eyes lingered on the shawl covering her arm. "The one with the bad arm," Tate smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. "I heard you took a tumble at Wary Fox. My daughter tells me you bought one of Portia's projects."