The morning begins normally, or as normal as anything can be in the Ice Palace. I arrive early, review Damian’s schedule, organize the flood of emails that accumulated overnight, and try to ignore the lingering weight of the phone call I overheard the night before. Adrian’s mess. Blindness. His voice had been sharp enough to leave an imprint on the inside of my skull.
I try to focus on work. But the questions keep circling like restless birds.
Just after ten, a group from the PR department files into the hallway outside Damian’s office. Their polished outfits and forced smiles give away their agenda before they even speak. They linger outside the glass door, straightening their clothes and gathering their courage like people preparing to approach a sleeping dragon.
I buzz him on the int
