As the sun slipped behind the serrated peaks of the Adirondacks, the retreat transformed. Daylight gave way to firelight, and the immaculate calm of the mountains was replaced by the low, indulgent hum of men who owned too much and feared too little. Flames licked the edges of a massive stone fire pit, crackling like they were in on the jokes, while billionaire moguls gathered around it in suspiciously "casual" cashmere and hiking boots that had never met actual hardship.
The air smelled expensive—pine resin, leather, aged whiskey, and the faintly absurd sweetness of gourmet s'mores assembled by staff who pretended not to notice that each marshmallow probably cost more than their rent. Laughter rolled through the group, deep and unguarded, the kind only produced after rare Scotch and years of believing consequences were for other people.
