The rumpled blankets are evidence of Kingsley's restless night as he sleeps, sprawled over his bed.

Except for the dim golden light that filters through the borders, the room is dark and subdued, due to the closed drapes.

The floor is littered with empty champagne bottles, a silent reminder of his fruitless attempts to block out his thoughts.

His tie dangles loosely from the bedpost, and his suit jacket is crumpled in one area.

He is startled out of his wits by a knock on the door.

Unwilling to confront anyone, he moans, but the knock is louder this time.

"Boss? It's Hardy. Are you inside?”

Kingsley rubs his hand...