Marcus woke up to the sound of sirens.They were distant, probably three or four blocks away from his small studio apartment in Queens. The walls were thin enough that he could hear Mrs. James next door arguing with her daughter about college applications. Below him, someone was playing salsa music at six-thirty in the morning. Marcus lay still for a moment, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a bird in flight. The wine-stained shirt lay crumpled on the floor where he'd dropped it. Marcus's phone buzzed on the milk crate he used as a nightstand. He'd received seventeen calls since last night. Five from blocked numbers. Three from Victoria's lawyer. Nine from Bradford Industries' HR department.Checking his phone, the text message from last night sat in his phone like a bomb with an unknown timer. “Welcome home, Young Master”.Only a handful of people in the world would call him that. And only one would have the audacity to send that message last night

"They were always going to frame you," Victor corrected. "That was part of the plan. The divorce was step one. Step two was supposed to be this: file criminal charges, have you arrested, and use the scandal to distract from their own financial crimes. With you in prison and disgraced, nobody would look at Bradford Industries' real problems.""When?" Marcus asked. "When were they planning to do this?""According to the communications I intercepted, they were going to wait a few months. They want you to feel comfortable. Then, they'd strike when you least expected it." Victor's jaw tightened. "But Cameron's visit this morning might have accelerated their timeline. If he reports back that you refused their offer and assaulted him—""I didn't assault him.""You put your hands on Bradford. That's all the story they need." Victor gestured to another stack of papers. "These are pre-written police reports, witness statements from Bradford Industries employees who'll swear they saw you acting

Marcus spent the night surrounded by evidence of his own destruction.The conference room had become his war room. Victor had left him alone around midnight with a promise to return at dawn. The cork boards on the wall were no longer just documentation—they were a battle map. He'd rearranged photos, drawn new connections in markers, and identified weaknesses in his enemies' armor.The Bradfords weren't just cruel. They were sloppy. Desperate. And desperation made people careless.When Victor returned at six AM with coffee and bagels, he found Marcus standing in front of the wall, still wearing yesterday's suit, eyes red but focused."You didn't sleep," Victor observed."Couldn't." Marcus accepted the coffee gratefully. "I kept seeing different patterns and connections. The Bradfords think they're so careful, but they're not. They're bleeding from a thousand cuts and trying to hide it with expensive suits and charity galas."Victor set down the bag of bagels and studied Marcus's additi

Antonio's on Sullivan Street was the kind of restaurant that thrived on anonymity rather than reputation. No pretentious signage, no velvet ropes—just an unmarked door between a laundromat and a bodega. Marcus had walked past it a thousand times during his marriage without knowing it existed.Victoria sat in the back corner booth, partially hidden by a privacy screen that hadn't been there the last time Marcus checked online. She wore a navy dress, simple and elegant, nothing like the designer pieces she'd favored during their marriage. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she'd forgone the makeup that usually transformed her face into something magazine-perfect.She looked human. Vulnerable."You came." Victoria's voice carried relief that seemed genuine, but Marcus had learned the hard way that his ex-wife was an actress."You asked." Marcus slid into the booth across from her, keeping his hands visible on the table. Through the front window, he saw the street, and pass

The police officer looked bored as he surveyed the destruction, his pen hovering over an empty notepad. He’d been in Marcus’s ransacked apartment for twenty minutes and had written down exactly three sentences."So you’re saying you don’t know who might have done this?" Officer Davidson’s tone suggested he’d already decided this was a waste of time. "No enemies? No disputes with neighbors? No reason anyone would target you specifically?"Marcus stood in what used to be his living room. His books lay spine-broken on the floor. The cheap IKEA furniture he’d assembled was now kindling. Even the photographs he kept in a drawer—the few remnants of happier times—had been torn and scattered like confetti."I have enemies," Marcus said quietly. "But I’m sure you already know that."Officer Davidson’s pen stopped moving. "What’s that supposed to mean?""It means someone called you before you got here." Marcus met the officer’s eyes. "Someone with enough influence to make a police report disapp