Daisy

The SUV barely moved.

Three blocks. In twenty minutes. At this rate, I’d make it to the war room sometime next week. I sat rigid in the back seat, my fingers curled tight around my phone, rereading Sarah’s message like the words might rearrange themselves into something less catastrophic. Norman’s name at the bottom of it all like a signature on a grenade.

Twelve percent.

In this economy where every board member was already watching margins like a hawk, where inflation had clients renegotiating contracts they’d signed six months ago, where twelve per cent was the difference between winning and watching a deal you’d built from the ground up...