General Thomas stepped directly into Arthur’s personal space. The two older men stared at each other, the tension crackling between them like live electricity.

“A boating accident in Greece,” the General repeated slowly, tasting the words. “That’s a fascinating story, Arthur. Truly. Because I spent four years stationed at the military tribunal in The Hague. And during that time, I saw photographs of a very specific burn mark. A mark left by a military-grade branding iron.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. The veins in his neck began to bulge.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Arthur said softly.

“The brand was crescent-shaped,” the General continued, ignoring the billionaire’s denial. “Applied to the neck of a man who stole sixty million dollars in aid money and ordered the execution of thirty innocent villagers. They never caught him. He vanished into the wind.”

The ballroom was so quiet now that Clara could hear the wind howling against the tall glass windows outside.

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