At three in the morning, the study lights were still on in a gated neighborhood outside Seattle. The house was large enough to echo when someone walked down the hall, but that night, no one moved.
Jonathan Hale sat alone at his desk, staring at a screen full of numbers that no longer made sense to him.
By day, Jonathan was known as a man who closed deals others were afraid to touch. His signature could shift markets. His voice, calm and measured, carried weight in rooms made of glass and steel.
By night, in his own home, he felt strangely small.It had been almost four years since his wife, Melissa, was gone. After that loss, Jonathan did what he had always done when life became unbearable. He worked harder. Longer. He convinced himself that stability came from numbers, from accounts that never ran dry.
