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The heavy velvet curtains of the "Onyx Lounge" didn't just block out the street noise of Manhattan; they seemed to swallow time itself. Inside, Julian sat at a corner table, his posture relaxed but his eyes—sharp, slate-grey—scanning the room. He wasn't there for the $50 cocktails or the jazz; he was there for the "whales." Hypnotizing the Rich Bitch into My Personal Pla...