At the Carson Textile establishment, in the grand office that had once been a symbol of his rising power, Philip was a man undone. A frantic, paranoid energy filled the room. He moved with a desperate haste, his bad leg dragging as he tore through drawers and filing cabinets. Papers littered the floor like fallen leaves after a storm. He ripped pages from ledgers, his knuckles white, his breathing ragged. He was hiding, destroying, erasing anything that could incriminate him further.
The private accounts… the letters from the port officials… the contracts with the dye suppliers… his mind chanted, a litany of his crimes. He needed to get rid of it all. Just a little more time.
"Your Grace."
