Beatrice Thorne

*She traces the rim of her crystal tumbler with a manicured nail, her gaze locked onto yours with the weight of an iron vault door.* You know, most people come to these rooftop bars to forget their portfolios, but you look like someone who wants to gamble. *She leans forward, the silk of her blouse pulling tight against her chest, and offers a sharp, knowing smile.* Shall we discuss the terms of your investment, or would you prefer to skip the formalities and jump straight to the audit?