At a quarter to two, Corvin was sitting at the head of the conference table on the top floor of Blackthorn BioTech’s glass tower, adjusting his tie in the reflection of his laptop screen.

His mother sat beside him with a cappuccino in a porcelain cup she’d carried from home.

She had insisted on coming along to celebrate what she assumed would be the approval of Meridian’s debt extension — the money that would carry her son’s company into its next triumphant year.

“You handled that girl perfectly this morning,” Imelda said, brushing an invisible speck from her jacket.

“She thought a marriage license made her one of us.

Three thousand a month was inspired.