The blizzard howled like a banshee outside Arthur Finchley’s study, rattling the leaded windows in their frames. Inside, it was an island of warmth: crackling fire in the hearth, the rich scent of leather-bound books, and the deep, comforting aroma of real hot chocolate. Arthur poured the steaming, dark liquid from a silver pot into two heavy stoneware mugs.

“Nothing like a proper blizzard to appreciate the finer things, eh, Charles?” Arthur smiled, pushing one mug across the polished oak desk towards his business partner. “Mrs. Higgins swears by this recipe – Venezuelan beans, a pinch of cayenne, and a splash of that cognac you brought back from Bordeaux.”

Charles Langford settled into the worn leather armchair opposite, the firelight glinting off his spectacles. He looked weary, shadows under his eyes. The stress of their failing shipping venture was etched onto his face. “Finest kind, Arthur,” Charles murmured, wrapping his chilled hands around the warm mug. “God knows I need the warmth. And the fortification.” He sighed, staring into the swirling dark depths. “Another creditor called today. Jenkins. Nasty piece of work.”

Arthur nodded sympathetically, his own expression grave. “Jenkins is a shark. But don’t despair, old friend. We’ve weathered storms before.” He lifted his own mug. “To better days ahead, Charles. To finding a way through this wretched mess.”

Charles managed a weak smile, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Arthur Finchley had that effect – calm, reassuring, the steady hand on the tiller. “To better days,” Charles echoed, his voice thick with gratitude and exhaustion. He raised his mug.

Their mugs met with a solid, resonant CLINK. “Cheers!” they chorused, the sound warm and companionable against the wind’s wail.

Arthur took a long, appreciative sip, closing his eyes for a moment as the rich, spicy chocolate and the smooth burn of cognac spread through him. “Mmm. Divine. Mrs. Higgins has outdone herself.”

Charles brought the mug to his lips. The aroma was deep, complex, utterly inviting. He took a sip. It was divine. Rich, velvety, the perfect temperature. The cognac was a warm counterpoint. But… beneath the luxurious sweetness, there was something else. A faint, almost imperceptible bitterness, like the pith of an orange peel. He paused, frowning slightly. “Strong cognac,” he remarked, taking another, smaller sip. The bitterness seemed to linger on his tongue this time, a subtle discordant note in the symphony of flavor. He glanced at Arthur, who was watching him over the rim of his own mug, his expression unreadable.

“Just enough to take the edge off, Charles,” Arthur said softly, his voice low and smooth. “You need it. You look utterly wrung out.” He took another deliberate sip of his own drink.

Charles felt a prickle of unease, unrelated to their financial woes. The fire suddenly seemed too hot. The rich chocolate sat heavily in his stomach. He took another sip, trying to place the taste. It wasn’t just bitterness… it was almost… metallic? Like licking a penny. And beneath that, a cloying sweetness that wasn’t quite right. He set the mug down carefully on the desk blotter, his hand trembling slightly.

“Arthur,” Charles began, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, a little thick. “This… the chocolate… it tastes…”

“Special?” Arthur finished for him, a small, tight smile touching his lips. He leaned forward slightly, the firelight catching the cold calculation in his eyes, utterly devoid of their usual warmth. “It is special, Charles. A very old family recipe. Passed down discreetly.”

Charles felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. His vision blurred slightly at the edges. The comforting aroma now seemed cloying, suffocating. He tried to focus on Arthur’s face. “What… what did you…?”

Arthur watched him, his gaze steady, almost clinical. “The Jenkins problem, Charles,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection. “He wasn’t just calling about the company debt. He was calling about your personal guarantees. The ones you foolishly signed without my knowledge. The ones that put my assets, my legacy, squarely on the chopping block.” He took another slow sip of his chocolate. “You were always too trusting. Too emotional.”

Charles gasped, clutching the arms of the chair. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, distinct from the fire’s heat. A sharp, cramping pain seized his gut. “Arthur… please…”

“There is no ‘through’ this storm, Charles,” Arthur continued, his voice chillingly calm. “Not for both of us. Jenkins demanded full payment by Monday. Payment I don’t have… unless certain life insurance policies mature rather quickly.” He gestured almost negligently at Charles’s mug. “The bitter almond notes… difficult to mask entirely, but Mrs. Higgins’s spice blend does a remarkable job, wouldn’t you say? And the cyanide salts dissolve quite readily in hot liquid. Quick. Relatively painless, I’m told. Better than what Jenkins would have done.”

Charles tried to lurch up, but his legs buckled. He slumped back, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The study swam around him. Arthur Finchley, his friend of twenty years, watched him dispassionately from the other side of the desk.

“Cheers, Charles,” Arthur whispered, raising his own, perfectly safe mug in a final, grotesque toast to the man gasping in the leather chair. The hollow clink of their mugs still seemed to echo in the suddenly oppressive silence, drowned out only by the frantic, weakening thud of Charles’s heart and the relentless howl of the storm outside. The comforting aroma of chocolate now tasted like ash and betrayal on Charles’s failing tongue.

And, you just know I can’t neglect the obligatory shameless self-promotion. New Yesterdays is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.