Curry woke early inside the holding cell at the city police bureau, though "woke" was generous. The place was cold, dank, and reeked of mildew. A thin mattress had been tossed onto the concrete bench, but sleep had come in fragments at best. He sat up and rolled his neck, feeling the stiffness settle into his shoulders.Compared to this, his three years at Stonegate Federal Penitentiary had been a vacation. Private quarters, climate control, an imported mattress. The irony wasn't lost on him that a federal prison offered better accommodations than a city holding cell, and he almost laughed at the absurdity.Outside the bureau's front entrance, Commissioner Beaumont stepped out of a black sedan, his driver holding the door. The morning air was still cool, but the Commissioner's expression carried no warmth at all. He straightened his coat and strode toward the building without breaking pace.Inspector Caldwell hadn't even finished his breakfast when word reached him. H

Inspector Caldwell's expression darkened, his jaw tightening, and if not for the uniform he wore, he would have cursed out loud. Were it not for Celeste Vale and her theatrics the night before, he never would have endured that blistering phone call from Commissioner Beaumont, a reprimand so severe it nearly cost him his badge. He withdrew a sheet of official letterhead from his briefcase and read in a flat, measured tone. "Following a renewed investigation this morning, it has been determined that Curry Pitt did not possess the means nor the opportunity to commit the alleged offense. Surveillance footage from the Hilcrest Hotel confirms that the individual who escorted Mika Turner to the premises last night was Callum Domingo." He folded the paper and looked up. "Mr. Domingo is now in our custody. He has requested a meeting with Ms. Turner, asking that the matter be resolved privately." The words struck Celeste like a thunderclap. Her face drained of color and her lip

Damian Mercer stood motionless near the row of porcelain sinks, his gaze fixed on the man before him. Something about the face nagged at him like a half-remembered ghost at the edge of recognition. He knew this person, yet the name refused to surface, buried beneath years of indulgence. Curry exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke and let the corner of his mouth lift. "The young Master Mercer himself. They say the privileged have short memories, so I suppose you've forgotten me already." Beneath that easy tone, cold fury coiled tight. This man had stolen the woman Curry once treasured, then paraded the humiliation like a trophy for the entire campus to see. Time could dull such a wound, but it could never erase it. The voice did what the face could not. Recognition slammed into Damian, and his eyes went wide as he blurted out the name, unable to hide his shock at encountering Curry Pitt in a place like this. "There it is." Curry turned the faucet on and ran his hands und

When Alfred Parsons walked through the door flanked by composure and purpose, Hartwell Mercer barely spared him a glance. The old man leaned back in his chair and let a cold smile settle across his face, as though he'd already anticipated this interruption and found it beneath his concern."Alfred," he said, his voice carrying the bored edge of a man who'd seen too many mediators in his lifetime, "don't tell me you've come to play peacemaker in my own house."Alfred kept his expression warm, almost deferential, though the tension behind his eyes told a different story. "I wouldn't presume. I simply think disputes between young men ought to be settled by young men, and there's no need for us old-timers to dirty our hands over something like this."It was a stall, and he knew it. His people were close, and a few more minutes would shift the balance of power in this room enough to give Hartwell pause. That was all he needed: a pause, a crack in the old man's certainty, j

Curry let out a half-laugh as he looked down at Brock Tiernan's kneeling form and told him to get up. The man's forehead was pressed so hard against the polished floor that the skin had gone white at the edges. Curry asked what kind of look this was, pointing out that someone who gave orders around here had no business bowing to anyone under his own roof.Brock shook his head frantically, shoulders trembling, and swore he had never known Curry was Buzz's superior. He promised he would accept whatever punishment Curry chose without a word of protest.Curry repeated himself, his tone flattening as all warmth drained from it. He had no interest in dragging this out, and the room had gone so still he could hear the overhead lights humming.Brock scrambled to his feet, eyes low, posture shrunken. He tugged at the hem of his jacket as though straightening it might restore some fragment of dignity. The man who had lorded over this auction hall minutes ago now stood like a ch