At the eastern edge of Long Island, the elite enclave of the Hamptons was usually a refuge for the super-rich, a place to escape the chaos of Manhattan.Tonight, however, that tranquility was torn apart by a violent thunderstorm sweeping in from the Atlantic. Waves raged against the rocky cliffs with a roaring force that seemed to drown out the world itself.On a private golf course owned by Reginald Holt, perched right along the coastal cliffs, blinding halogen floodlights fought desperately against the darkness.Inside a luxurious storm-proof glass pavilion, Holt sat in arrogant comfort. He was a man in his fifties with a protruding belly, a thick Cuban cigar tucked between his lips, and a glass of fifty-year-old scotch in his hand.Around him, four large mercenary guards stood on alert, assault rifles concealed beneath their suits. Holt stared at his tablet with a satisfied grin.A transfer of ten million dollars had just arrived in his offshore account as an advance payment from h

He stepped forward and gently took Viviane’s shoulders. His reddened eyes locked onto hers.“Last night, five hundred million dollars flowed out of our accounts to fund his life support and his mercenary army,” Matthew whispered hoarsely.“Julian isn’t looking for his company anymore. He’s looking for my life, and if he can’t get me, he’ll take what matters most to me.”Matthew’s gaze dropped to Viviane’s stomach. His trembling hand slowly rested against it.“I broke my promise, Vie,” his voice cracked. The man feared by Wall Street’s elite now sounded utterly shattered.“I sacrificed my nerves, my sanity, and my humanity… so our child wouldn’t die tomorrow morning. So you wouldn’t explode inside your own car.”Tears streamed down Viviane’s cheeks. All her anger dissolved, replaced by real terror and the pain of witnessing her husband’s sacrifice. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, burying her face in his chest as she sobbed.“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, Matthew,” Viviane cried

The Monolith Building, the central headquarters of the Terran Alliance, towered through the dense Manhattan fog like an obsidian obelisk threatening the sky.On the top floor, the main conference room, shaped in a semicircle, felt more like a nuclear bunker than a place for business meetings. Its walls were layered with a titanium-carbon alloy, designed to withstand bomb blasts and suppress all forms of electromagnetic surveillance.Matthew Thomas sat at the end of an oval smart-glass table. His shirt was immaculate, his suit perfectly pressed. Yet the aura around him was so dense it seemed to generate its own gravity, pressing down on everyone in the room.Across from him, Vincent Chen sat restlessly, his fingers tapping the table without pause. Beside him, Veronica Wu and Caleb Foster stood upright, their faces reflecting mounting tension.On the wall-sized main screen, the global asset map of the Terran Alliance glowed bright green.“Carol Lane and Mark Davies are in NYPD custody,

Ten in the morning. Autumn sunlight streamed through the massive glass walls of the Monolith building, the Terran Alliance headquarters rising one hundred stories above the heart of Manhattan.Its interior design was the embodiment of absolute power. Chrome steel, black glass, and white marble dominated everything from the lobby to the executive floors.On the eightieth floor, Viviane Lane sat in her executive leather chair, reviewing the third-quarter financial report. Her left hand absentmindedly rested on her swollen belly.At seven months pregnant, her back often ached. Combined with the unrelenting internal conflict within her family, the strain was immense.Her mother, Carol Lane, continued to corner her, while pressure from Lane Corp’s shareholders demanded stability.Suddenly, the lights flickered once, then twice. A low hum from the HVAC system cut out abruptly. The room fell into an unnatural silence, completely devoid of sound.“Sarah?” Viviane called toward the open doorwa

A few hours later,Rain poured heavily over New York City, washing the streets clean of filth. Yet it could not cleanse the rot festering inside a luxury apartment building on the Upper East Side.Mark Davies, former junior executive of Lane Corp., sat slouched against his hundred-thousand-dollar white leather sofa. In his right hand was a glass of fifty-year-old Macallan whiskey, while his eyes remained fixed on the massive television screen broadcasting the evening’s financial news.Even though Matthew Thomas had destroyed his career and most of his financial assets for becoming Julian Vance’s pawn, Mark still felt he held the upper hand. He had successfully bribed three federal judges and two district police chiefs. No prison bars would ever touch him.“Who do you think you are, Thomas?” Mark muttered cynically as he studied the crystal glass, then drained the whiskey in one gulp.“You’re just a lowly accountant who got lucky marrying Viviane Lane, the woman who should have married