The next morning, the office was in an uproar. Mr. Henderson had been arrested at Heathrow for embezzlement. By noon, the board appointed Mark as the interim head of the department.
Desperate to fix it, Mark opened the journal again. His hands shook. He didn't want the debt, and he wanted his freedom back.
Mark lived for the "deal." As a mid-level acquisitions and mergers consultant, he spent his days eyeing other people’s fortunes, waiting for his own. His tiny London flat was a gallery of expensive things he couldn't quite afford—a vintage Rolex, a silk rug, and a collection of rare books he never read.
A week later, his eyes fell on a beautiful woman at a charity gala—Elena, the daughter of a rival CEO. She didn't know he existed. He went home and wrote: I wish Elena would fall in love with me.
He had gotten exactly what he asked for: he was no longer the head of the department, and he certainly had no more debts to pay. He was going to a place where his needs would be provided for, and where Elena could never find him. A prison cell.
(Modern London, historical setting, or a specific city?)
Mark sat in the leather chair, staring at the Thames through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He felt a chill, but he shook it off. It was a coincidence. A lucky break.
