The site of the future Oasis project was a sprawling, ten-acre expanse of cleared earth in the heart of Manhattan’s financial district. By eleven-thirty that morning, it had been transformed into an arena of corporate theater. Massive white pavilions snapped in the brisk autumn wind, sheltering rows

The silence in the pavilion was absolute. Even the brisk autumn wind seemed to hold its breath. Hundreds of eyes darted back and forth between the pale, sweating man at the podium and the woman in the crimson suit standing at the microphone.

"Clara," Julian croaked, his voice barely picking up on

The fallout was spectacular, swift, and absolute.

By three o'clock that afternoon, the news of Julian Thorne’s public implosion was the number one trending topic worldwide. The video of Clara standing at the microphone, calmly dismantling Julian’s architectural lies while he sweated and stammered,