"I'm sorry," Cara whispered. The words meant nothing. They were just sounds now, empty of the weight they should have carried. Richard let out a small, broken laugh. "You've said that already. Just tell me why." His voice didn't shake anymore. That surprised him more than anything else happening right now. Somewhere between the silence and this moment, the panic in his chest had curdled into something quieter. Something waiting. She lifted her eyes. Guilt. And something else underneath it he couldn't name yet, something closer to relief. "Cara." A man's voice, calm and certain, from behind her. Richard didn't need to turn around. He already knew. Marcus Steele stepped forward, one hand in his pocket like this was any other Tuesday, and extended the other toward Cara. "We should go." Cara hesitated exactly one second, then reached for his hand. Richard watched their fingers lock together in front of two hundred witnesses, and the ballroom went silent enough that all he could

Across the city, Marcus Steele stood alone in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse. The city stretched beneath him, hundreds of lights flickering through the darkness. Usually, he enjoyed the view. Tonight, he barely noticed it.Behind him, Cara sat quietly on the edge of the sofa. Her makeup was smudged. Her hair, which had looked perfect earlier that evening, had fallen loosely around her face. She kept rubbing her thumb over the side of her finger, again and again, without realizing she was doing it. Neither of them had spoken for several minutes.Finally, Cara broke the silence. "I didn't want it to happen like that."Marcus picked up the glass on the table. "But it did."Cara looked at him. "Marcus..."He took a slow sip. "You made your choice."Her lips pressed together. "I know.""Then stop feeling guilty about it."She stared at him as if she couldn't believe what she'd heard. "Stop feeling guilty?"Marcus turned toward her. "You chose me. You knew what you

The handle moved slowly. Richard stopped breathing. Grant stood beside the desk, the old envelope clutched tightly in his hand. The assistant backed away from the door.Another click. The lock held. For now."Mr. Grant," the voice outside called again. "Open the door."Richard glanced at Grant. "Who are they?"Grant didn't answer."Mr. Grant.""I don't know.""You don't sound like you believe that."Grant looked at him. "I don't."The handle stopped moving. For three seconds, there was silence. Then a bang shook the entire door.Richard flinched. The assistant gasped."Call security," Grant ordered."I already did.""Then call them again."The assistant pulled out his phone with trembling fingers. Another bang shook the door harder. Richard's eyes moved around the room. The paperweight. The windows. The hidden door. The letter opener beneath his sleeve. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. Only twelve hours ago, his biggest problem had been getting rejected b

Richard couldn't move. The phone continued ringing in his hand.Mum.The name stared back at him from the screen. For fourteen years, that name had existed only in his memories, old photographs, and the contact list he had never had the courage to delete. His mother's number had been disconnected shortly after her funeral. So why was it calling him now?He had kept her contact card for reasons he'd never fully examined, not out of denial exactly, but something adjacent to it. A small, irrational hope that one day the number might ring and prove the last fourteen years had been some enormous mistake. He had never expected that hope to actually be answered, and certainly not like this, not in the middle of running from armed strangers with his hands still shaking from a gunshot he'd heard less than an hour ago.There had been a version of him, years ago, who used to imagine conversations with her. Small, ordinary things. Telling her about a promotion he never got, or a girlfriend she ne

They reached the stairwell. Grant pushed the door open. Then stopped. Richard almost walked into him."What?"Grant slowly raised a finger to his lips. They listened. Footsteps. Coming up the stairs. Someone was climbing toward them. Slowly. Calmly. Not running. Richard's heart began pounding.There was something almost worse about the unhurried pace of it. Every threat Richard had faced since the ballroom had come fast, a bang against a door, a gunshot, a sudden blackout. This was different. Whoever was climbing those stairs wasn't afraid of being caught, wasn't in any rush at all, and that told Richard more about how much danger they were actually in than any of the noise before it had.He thought briefly of Lucas, of his small apartment and its nearly empty refrigerator, of a life that twenty-four hours ago had felt unremarkable in the worst way. None of it had prepared him for standing in a stairwell listening to a man's calm, deliberate footsteps and understanding, with total cla