ELIJAH'S POV
I met Marcus at the restaurant on Fifth Street, the kind of place where deals got made over expensive steaks and single malt whiskey. He was already waiting when I arrived, his pad open and a stack of papers spread across the table.
"Elijah." He stood to shake my hand, his grip firm and professional. "Thanks for meeting me on such short notice."
"Time is money," I said, sliding into the booth across from him. "And right now, time is everything."
The waitress appeared immediately. I ordered a whiskey neat. Marcus stuck with coffee, probably trying to keep his head clear for whatever spin he was about to weave.
"So," I said, leaning back in my seat. "What's the story?"
Marcus pulled up something on his papers. "I've been monitoring the media response to Imogen's press conference. The reaction is... intense."
"Good intense or bad intense?"
