Doug Merritt sat at his desk, motionless except for the subtle clenching and unclenching of his thick hands. Big knuckled, tanned, and slightly calloused despite the years behind a desk, they gripped each other in his lap like he was trying to hide them from himself.
Fifty-five and bulked thanks to the most expensive personal trainer he could find, Doug looked every bit the part of Chairman of the Board: charcoal wool suit, cut to perfection and hand stitched in London; perfectly symmetrical Windsor knot; pale blue shirt with French cuffs. His shoes gleamed. His tie was silk. His posture should have radiated control. But it didn’t.
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