The clock on Alaric’s desk ticked with agonizing precision, counting down the forty-eight hours he had claimed. Outside, the London rain streaked the glass, blurring the city lights into smears of cold neon. He pulled up the surveillance footage once more, pausing on the exact frame where Clara had broken down outside Marcus’s townhouse.Her grief was a living thing, visible even through a pixelated lens."You're letting emotion cloud the strategy, Rafe."Marcus Reid’s voice broke the silence. He hadn't left the building; he had merely been waiting out the initial tension. He walked back into the office, his expression hardened by years of shared bitterness. "We didn't spend two years in the shadows, enduring the reconstruction, the agonizing therapy, and the financial restructuring, just for you to throw it away because she shed a few tears.""It isn't just about the tears, Marcus," Alaric said, his tone low and resonant. He didn't turn from the window. "Marcus Blackwell is smart. If