"Is that him?" "Play it." Laura slammed her palm on the table. Her voice cut through the quiet like a starter pistol. The conference room screen blinked alive. Roman Weaver filled the frame in a tailored suit and a cold smile. The headline ticker read: ROMAN WEAVER RETURNS—WILL REOPEN WEAVER CAPITAL. "Good evening," Roman said into a bank of cameras. "Harbor City's headlines sure age badly. I'm back because the city needs steady hands." "Cut to the part where he admits he chased you," Laura said. The video skipped. Roman's face stayed on the screen, flawless, practiced. A reporter asked about a past rumor—about Josephine Meyer and rumors that tanked a tiny studio. Roman picked up the thread like a scalpel. "Yes, I remember her," he said. "We had a thing. I chased her. I moved markets to get her attention. People make poor choices when they're young." "That last sentence?" Laura mouthed at me. "He just admitted to moving markets to chase you." Malcolm Costa, leaning back with the investment packet on his lap, didn't move at first. He'd been polite for three pages of budgets. His smile was a practiced lean. He watched Roman on the screen and then looked at me like someone checking a frame for a crack. "Mr. Costa?" I said, voice steady. Malcolm folded the packet with slow fingers. "I didn't come here to hear gossip," he said. "I came here to make money." "Then