Far above ground, at a height of 2,500 feet, stood the man, the mystery, the legend. Rowan Kane. He held a simple cup of coffee, the steam curling lazily upward as his sharp eyes scanned the horizon beyond his office glass facade. The world looked small from up here, but every move below was a game piece in the power he quietly commanded. His smile flickered briefly, satisfied but calculating. The news from the boardroom earlier still echoed in his mind. The shock on Lena’s face when she saw him walk in was palpable, memorable. Sure, her spirit must have left her soul at that moment. He loved how even her proud, strong-woman exterior was shattered before him. And to her, he was only a spokesperson. Well, that was quite a title in Echelon Eight. But what then would be her reaction when she finds out that he was a far cry from being a spokesperson? He laughed as the possibilities floated and danced inside his head. Rowan leaned back, fingers tapping lightly on the polished desk.

“Yes. You are a fat, loud disgrace of a man who thinks authority is measured in decibels,” Rowan said coldly, barely blinking as his eyes bore into Peter’s. Peters scoffed, inching closer with a twitch in his neck. “You’re in my store, running your mouth, insulting me? You must be out of your damn mind. Who the fuck do you even think you are?” His breath reeked of cheap coffee and ego. He raised his hand like a drunk executioner and swung for Rowan’s cheek. But it never landed. Rowan caught the hand mid-air, fingers closing like a steel trap around Peter's wrist. The sound that followed was not a slap—it was a crack. A deep, bone-snapping twist that forced Peters down to his knees in a scream that emptied the store. Peter held his face in shock. He had just been slapped like a little boy. Customers gasped. A few dropped their shopping baskets. Someone cursed under their breath. But Rowan’s expression didn’t change. His jaw was set, cold, quiet, ruthless. “You laid your hands on

The house looked like a war zone. It looked like a hurricane had ripped through it. Broken glass on the floor. Cabinet doors wide open. Torn paper scattered like confetti after a funeral. Lena stood barefoot in the middle of it, her hair wild, her chest rising and falling with erratic gasps as if the air itself was choking her. Her eyes darted around, bloodshot, hunting for a ghost that wouldn’t reveal itself. She was on a rampage, desperately searching, flipping through old documents, yanking open drawers, and throwing things aside. She was looking for something, anything, that could prove Rowan had been working with Echelon Eight. Anything that could explain how her supposedly useless husband had suddenly become some sort of corporate power player. “There has to be something,” she muttered under her breath, tossing another drawer to the ground. “There has to be some proof. Some file. Something to link him to them.” She grabbed the desk lamp and slammed it against the wall. Th

Lena slammed the door behind her and slumped into her chair like the weight of the entire world had been wired to her spine. Her office felt colder than usual, like the walls had witnessed too much—too many arguments, too many plans, too many breakdowns. She glanced at the framed awards on the shelf, the untouched coffee on her desk, the half-written strategy notes scattered across the floor from this morning’s rage. She dragged her fingers through her hair and pressed her palms against her temples. Her jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. The image of Rowan sitting across that boardroom table played again and again like a cruel memory she couldn’t erase. Calm, unreadable, powerful. That silent confidence he wore like armor—like a man who knew he didn’t need to announce himself. “Just because you got a seat,” she muttered, venom sharp in her throat. “You think you’re someone now?” She stood, kicked the chair backward, and stormed to the glass wall of her office, staring out at the O

Far above the Manhattan skyline, nestled on the uppermost floors of the Monarch Tower, stood LangCorp Innovations LangCrop, a sleek empire of steel and tinted glass with its own gravitational pull, sat beautifully over a huge space of land. Thirty-eight stories of technology, luxury, and influence. The name LangCorp alone turned heads in global boardrooms. Their revenue could cripple small countries. Their clientele included governments, oil conglomerates, and elite institutions. It was the kind of company people bowed to, but even LangCorp couldn’t compare to a single unit of Echelon Eight. And that, perhaps, was what made today interesting. A black Bugatti Divo hummed low into the private underground entrance, its matte finish reflecting nothing, just like the man inside it. The driver stepped out, tall, unreadable. Rowan Kane adjusted the cuff of his jacket and glanced once at his reflection in the mirror by the elevator. Clean lines, clean eyes, clean intentions — and a hidde