It had ruined something they had been planning all evening.
The first sign was my father.
Richard Mercer was not a man who startled easily. He had spent thirty years in finance cultivating the kind of composure that made other people reveal too much around him. Even when Grant was arrested for drunk driving at twenty-two, my father stayed calm enough to make three phone calls, hire a lawyer, and lecture him only after breakfast. But when Grant finished reading the article on my phone and looked at him, I noticed something I had almost never seen on my father’s face.
Panic.
Not loud panic. Not chaotic panic. The controlled version. The kind powerful men show when they realize the board has shifted and they no longer control the game.
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