"Samuel, take those macaroons to the children," Alan said as the sleek black car rolled to a stop in the wide stone driveway of the neighboring house.
The tone of his voice was as controlled as ever, the voice of a man who was accustomed to being obeyed without hesitation. Yet there was an undertone, a faint weariness that revealed itself only in the smallest of cracks. That morning had been a battlefield of boardrooms, a clash of wills and strategies, the kind of brutal contest where each handshake concealed daggers. For hours he had maneuvered, struck, defended, and parried in the corporate arena. He had left the meeting victorious, yes, but victories of that sort were not without cost. They drained him in a way that was invisible to most, leaving the muscles of his mind aching even while his exterior remained composed.
