The city’s lights shimmered like a galaxy beneath Silas’s sleek black sedan as it rounded the final corner toward his penthouse boulevard. The blood red neon of a late‐night diner cast long shadows across the asphalt. Silas let out a quiet breath, the weight of the past forty‐eight hours pressing against his temples. Isaac rode shotgun, eyes darting to every intersection. It had been a restless day—every route mapped, every security check done—but the masked men’s ultimatum still pulsed in Silas’s mind.“Almost there,” Isaac murmured, sliding a hand to the concealed holster beneath his jacket.Silas nodded, muscles coiled. “Stay sharp.”They sped past a row of overturned trash bins and a shuttered storefront, the only sounds the engine’s hum and the distant hum of traffic. Then, as the car turned onto a dimly lit side street, two SUVs screeched out from side alleys, blocking both ends of the road. Their headlights flared like sentinels of doom.Isaac slammed on the brakes, tires sc

A brittle wind rattled the leaded glass of the grand foyer as clan members arrived at Lancaster Mansion, their coats swirling like dark banners in the twilight. The mansion, a sweeping edifice of white limestone and carved pillars, glowed under floodlights that revealed every cornice and gargoyle in crisp relief. Servants in tailcoats and gowns hurried along marble floors, guiding the estate’s distinguished guests to the colossal oak doors of the main hall. Murmurs of disbelief and speculation drifted through the corridors like restless spirits.Within the vast assembly chamber—its vaulted ceiling frescoed with ancestral scenes and crystal chandeliers dripping light—the patriarch, Lord Lancaster, sat at the head of a long mahogany table. Dozens of clan members, from sprightly young heirs to weathered matriarchs, filled the chairs, their faces a tapestry of shock, concern, and barely concealed anger. On the walls, oil portraits of Lancaster ancestors looked down with stern approva

Moonlight slanted through the half-drawn velvet curtains of Damien Carter’s private chambers, casting long, uneven shadows across dark wood paneling and the plush, scarlet carpet. Three curved monitors glowed on his heavy mahogany desk like triptychs of his triumph: one displayed a live feed from Lilian Lawson’s corner office; the second, the frenzied chaos inside her tech department; the third, the directory of her company’s most sensitive files—now embedded with Damien’s Trojan virus.Damien leaned back in his leather throne-chair, fingertips steepled beneath his chin. The low hum of cooling fans and the quiet click of his custom keyboard filled the room. Rows of framed accolades—“Philanthropist of the Year,” “Entrepreneurial Visionary”—lined the walls, but tonight they were mere bystanders to his darker masterpiece.On screen one, Lilian’s office was a whirl of panic. She stood by her desk, hands pressed into her hair, brow furrowed as she stared at an innocent “Access Denied” me

Elena slid open the glass door to her corner office, the late afternoon sun casting elongated shadows across the polished concrete floor. The spacious room—walls of soft gray, punctuated with shelves of neatly stacked binders and a single abstract painting—felt momentarily alive with the tension radiating from the hallway. She paused just inside, adjusting the strap of her laptop bag, and froze.Mat Lancaster stood in the center of her office, the afternoon light catching the copper highlights in his hair. He wore a tailored navy blazer, sleeves pushed up to reveal a crisp white shirt. His expression was hopeful—almost disarming—but Elena’s heart fluttered in her chest with a mix of anger and inexplicable longing.“Hello, Elena,” Mat called gently, stepping forward.She didn’t respond. Instead, she clutched her bag to her side and strode past him, the click of her heels resolute against the floor. Mat’s brow furrowed and he hurried to catch up, closing the distance in three long s