In the boardroom, Osa sat with his committee team—twenty men around the oval oak table.
Noah said, "Thousands of acres of crops have been destroyed by the jets from Intermarium in Cascadia. They did fifty million dollars' worth of damage to the crop."
Osa slammed his fist on the table. "Damn the bitch! Lolita's terrorists caused a lot of damage to the fields in Cascadia. As a country, we'll never financially recover from this."
"What do we do?" Noah's eyes were heavy with worry.
"I'll ask Richard Scott for emergency food supplies," Osa said, sipping water. "We can't sell wheat anymore—external debt's unpayable."
"By asking for food rations from Richard, it'll only increase our debt. Richard is not a person who believes in giving out free handouts to people."
"We've no choice, especially when the country's population is at risk for starvation," Osa stood abruptly. "I need to lie down—headache." He stormed out.
Later, in the hallway, he spotted Racheal in her colourful dress beside the black figurine on the display counter.
"Racheal, come to my room. Massage."
She nodded and followed.
In the bedroom, Osa stripped, face down on the pillows. Racheal wrinkled her nose at his sour tobacco-and-sweat reek skin, then worked butter lotion into his back, hoping it would mask the stench.