That was why, when he dug through a dumpster for recyclables and found the pristine envelope, he froze. The company’s logo gleamed even through grime: Winton Industries, owned by a man who smiled from billboards and magazines. A man who promised to create jobs and opportunities while shaking hands with governors.
Jace could have left it. He could have sold it for scrap value. Instead, he tucked it under his shirt to protect it from the rain and walked all the way to Lakeshore Plaza, rehearsing his explanation with every step until the words felt threadbare.
Upstairs, on the fortieth floor, Harlan Winton paced in a boardroom made of glass. He was sixty-eight years old and still carried himself like a man younger than the furniture around him. Once, he had built his company from a garage and lived on hopes and instant noodles. Now, people treated him like a monument rather than a human being.