JULIAN’S POVThe Wayne and Ford head office was a room of polished mahogany, brass, and the suffocating scent of old money.I sat in the executive chair, my legs splayed, nursing a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt beans and desperation. The receptionist had been terrified to serve it, her hands trembling as she set the saucer down.She knew—they all knew. My face was a map of recent violence, the stitches from the blast still puckering my skin, a testament to my humiliating fall from grace.The door finally pushed open, and Mr. Gruffy strode in, his posture rigid. He was a creature of habit—a man in his sixties with skin like cured leather, peering over the top of tiny, circular-rimmed glasses that made his sharp, calculating eyes look like magnified insects.He looked like he was about to deliver a lecture on interest rates, but the moment his gaze landed on me, the lecture died in his throat.His frustration was instant, and he rejected my presence with his eyes before he could

JULIANThe hotel room I had managed to work my way into was a sprawling penthouse suite that smelled of white lilies, expensive scotch, and the kind of suffocating opulence that usually only the stinking rich could have.Thick, velvet curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun, casting the room in a permanent, golden twilight. The furniture was all gilded curves and crushed silk, every surface reflecting the soft light of chandeliers that looked like captured stars.It was a space designed for secrets—for deals made in shadows and sins washed clean by deep pockets.I stood in the entryway, the air thick with the expensive scent of her presence. Then…I saw her.Isabella Montclair sat on the chaise longue, a portrait of faded, formidable grandeur. She was a woman who owned the room simply by existing within it. She was elegant, slightly plus-sized, and dressed in a silk robe that clung to her body with a deliberate, slippery grace. Streaks of silver threaded through her carefully sty

The photograph lay on the large mahogany table like a live grenade none of us in the room was willing to touch. I was still perplexed over it and had to summon the other two to have a look at the madness before me. Helen stood over it, her body rigid, her eyes scanning the image on the table with a mixture of disbelief and growing nausea. The man in the picture was unmistakable—it was her own cousin, the blood relation who had been a specter in our lives since this nightmare began.She shook her head, the motion sharp and erratic. She looked toward Sloane, her voice trembling with a rare, naked doubt. "Are you absolutely sure every single data point here is accurate, Sloane? Every metadata tag, every timestamp?"Sloane bristled, his shoulders squaring, a flicker of offended pride crossing his face. "I don’t leave breadcrumbs, Helen. The file is verified and the intel is rock solid."Helen sighed and paced across the room to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, her reflection ghostly

Helen pulled back, her breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches that betrayed the cool composure on her face that she worked so hard to maintain. Her face was flushed a deep, tell-tale crimson, and for a split second, the impenetrable mask she wore had completely dissolved. Her eyes were wide, dazed, and she looked at me as if she were seeing a stranger—or perhaps, as if she were finally seeing the man she had been trying so hard to ignore."Smile," I whispered softly. I tightened my grip on her hand, forcing her to look back at the room rather than at me. "The lenses are still on us. Keep the performance perfect and we give them exactly what they want to see."Her hands trembled as she reached for her wine glass, her knuckles white against the fine crystal. She gulped down the remaining liquid in one go, a desperate attempt to settle the tremor in her hands."What is the plan, Carter?" she hissed, "That wasn't just a move for the cameras. Tell me what you are actually doing, because

The morning sun clawed its way through the penthouse blinds, casting forlorn stripes across the room. I didn’t need to look at the screen to know what was happening. The frantic, tinny voice of Davis screaming through the speakerphone was enough to tell me that not everyone was happy with what had gone down last night."Are you insane?" Davis roared, his voice cracking with panic. "The headlines, Carter! You’re on the front page of every major broadsheet from here to Kingston. 'The Van Alen Scandal,' 'The Billionaire’s Midnight Liaison'—you’ve turned yourself into a walking target! The entire council is watching the feed, and the board is demanding an emergency meeting! They think you’re losing your grip!"I didn't answer. I stood in the center of the room, my expression a devoid of emotion, listening to the world catch fire. Sloane leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, watching me with a look of profound, bewildered skepticism. He knew me better than anyone, and he knew that for