That morning, the air in Sanbergh was faintly misty. The sky was a pale gray, like a mirror reflecting something unfinished. Jaxon stood before the glass tower of the Moretti Group—a twenty-eight-story building that loomed high, reflecting the cold light of a sun reluctant to rise. His black suit fit perfectly across the shoulders, his tie neat, his expression calm. Beneath that calm, however, something far sharper hid: a plan.He looked at his reflection in the glass lobby wall. There was no longer any trace of the “cleaning service” in his eyes. Today, he came not as a servant but as Frans Moretti’s personal investment advisor—a position that placed him at the very heart of the man’s empire. The same man he had hated for two decades.“May I help you, sir?” the receptionist’s voice broke through his thoughts.“Jaxon Hale,” he said flatly, showing the temporary ID card Axton had prepared. “I have an appointment with Mr. Moretti.”The woman immediately stood and bowed politely. “Of cou