Rowan’s private lift opened straight into the top-floor suite of Echelon Eight. It still felt strange, riding up fifty stories alone. No chime, no polite “ding,” just doors that parted like stage curtains whenever the biometric scanner recognized his pulse. Inside, Elena already had the war-room look on her face: hair twisted in a low knot, glasses perched halfway down her nose, one finger flying across a tablet while the other hand paged through three color-coded folders at once. She never seemed rushed, only calibrated. Rowan stood before the glass, the skyline sprawled beneath him like a chessboard on fire — towers glowing, cars streaming through arteries of light. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, subtle but real. Elena saw it. She’d been watching him for years, and she could count on one hand the times that smile had appeared like that — genuine, not calculated. The last time, if she remembered right, was the day he found out his secret investment in a failin

PRESENT DAY Jason almost tripped out of the boardroom, disbelief draping over him like a second skin. One minute, he was just Jason, a campus nobody with a part-time job at Billy’s Diner Grill. The next, he was walking out with a Lexus at his side, ready to be presented to the most powerful man in the world as “his son for the evening.” The surreal nature of the moment made his heart drum in his ribs—but it also ignited something else: a fierce, electric thrill. He paused in the lobby, hands trembling, doubt creeping in. Me? But Elena’s voice had been firm, unwavering. “You fit the role, Jason. Just be yourself—carry yourself like you already own the place.” So he’d smiled, nodded, climbed into the car that cost more than a starter home, and drove away from everything he thought he knew. By midday, he was back at college—his second home, and his daily battlefield—sunglasses masking his fatigue, hidden in a sleek but borrowed jacket. The campus buzzed with the usual midday fre