The second investor, a sharp-featured man named Marcus Vane, arrived ten minutes late, bringing a cold, analytical energy that shifted the entire mood of the table.
The brunch at The Pierre was an exercise in high-stakes theater, a world of linen napkins, sterling silver, and lies polished to a high shine. Jason was at his most magnetic, weaving a narrative of exponential growth and unshakable stability. He spoke of the Vanderbilt future as if it were an inevitability, his voice steady and his smile blinding.
But Vane wasn't buying the charm. He was a man who lived in the numbers, and he picked at his eggs with a clinical detachment, his eyes moving from the spreadsheets Jason provided to the heavy diamonds around my neck. I felt like an item on the balance sheet—a high-end asset intend
