The prison gate didn't open so much as surrender, iron dragging over rust with a sound like something dying. Derek Cross stepped through it anyway, into light so sharp it almost blinded him. Five years. Five years of gray walls and grayer food, of men who called him "fresh meat" until he stopped being fresh, of nights spent memorizing the ceiling because the ceiling never lied to him. He'd learned to stand still when he wanted to scream. He'd learned to smile when he wanted to break someone's jaw. Today, for the first time in five years, he didn't have to learn anything. He just had to walk. "Cross!" The guard's voice cracked behind him, bored, already thinking about lunch. "Don't forget your shit." Derek turned. The guard held out a plastic bag, the kind you'd use for a sandwich, not a life. Derek took it. It weighed nothing. Five years, and this was the sum of him. "Good luck out there, convict." The guard's grin had a gap in it. "Bet you don't last a week." Derek said n

The man who stepped out of the Sweptail looked like he'd been tailored by the same hands that built the car. Late forties, gray threading through dark hair, a suit so sharp it seemed capable of drawing blood if you leaned too close. He crossed the lot without hurry, the kind of walk that belonged to men who never had to run for anything in their lives, and stopped a respectful two feet from Derek. "Mr. Cross?" A slight bow, precise, practiced. "Derek Cross?" "Who's asking?" "Darius Carter." Another bow, deeper this time. "Olympus agent, Crown City division. I've been assigned as your personal attendant." He straightened, and something like genuine regret crossed his face. "My sincerest apologies for the delay, sir. The traffic on the interstate was — forgive the expression — an absolute hell this morning." Derek looked past him at the cars lined up like a small army, the bodyguards still bowed at the waist, and felt something close to a laugh building in his chest. Five minu

The lobby of Hayden Group smelled like money — cold marble, fresh lilies, air conditioning turned just cold enough to remind visitors they were guests, not equals. Vanessa sat with her legs crossed, rehearsing the pitch in her head for the hundredth time, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt. "If we land this deal today," she said, not looking at Nolan, "we're in. Crown City high society, the real circles, not the pretend ones your father's money buys us into. No bitch in this city gets to look down on me again." "Heard the CEO's a woman," Nolan said, scrolling his phone, only half listening. "Supposedly the most beautiful one in Crown City." Vanessa's head snapped toward him so fast her earring caught the light. "Excuse me?" "What? I'm just saying what I heard—" His thumb moved slow and steady across his phone screen, eyes fixed somewhere she couldn't see — until she leaned over and did. Photos. A dozen of them, saved in a folder, all the same woman — blonde, sharp

"And where exactly did the two of you think you were running off to?" Vanessa's voice rang out across the cracked pavement, sweet and mocking, heels clicking slow against the concrete like she had all the time in the world. "Thought you could hide from me, huh? You old fools." She took three strides toward the elderly couple, smiling the whole way, Nolan and four heavily muscled men falling into step behind her — tattoos crawling up their necks, knuckles scarred. Derek's parents had made it as far as the curb, a single worn suitcase already open on the ground beside them, spilled clothes and photographs scattering in the wind like they'd been packing to run the second Vanessa's car turned the corner. Derek's father pulled his wife back gently, positioning his own body between her and Vanessa's approach, an old man's shoulders squaring against something he had no chance of stopping. "Please," he said, voice trembling but not breaking. "We don't want any trouble. Whatever this

The ballroom looked like something built for royalty that no longer existed anywhere else in the world — crystal chandeliers dripping light onto marble floors, tables bowing under the weight of food no one would finish, wine flowing so freely half the room had already lost count of their glasses. Crown City's elite drifted between conversations in tailored silk and diamonds, laughter rising and falling like its own kind of music, glasses clinking bright and constant under the light. Vanessa swept in on Nolan's arm, black dress cut sharp, hair pulled back into a ponytail so severe it looked expensive on purpose. "Fuck," Nolan breathed, eyes dragging across the chandeliers, the tables, the sheer obscenity of it all. "This is some serious extravagance. You think anyone would notice if a few of these forks went missing? We could pawn this whole table and retire early." "Nolan." Vanessa's grip tightened on his arm, smile never slipping. "Everyone in this room is Crown City elite. You w