The sharp, heavy thud of the bailiff's boots echoed across the marble floor, sounding like hammer blows inside the spacious penthouse living room. Isabella scrambled backward on her knees, her silk robe dragging through the tiny white shards of her shattered porcelain teacup. Her fingers scraped against the cold stone tiles until she bumped hard against the base of the living room display cabinet. She pulled her knees up tight against her chest, her face turning pale as white dust from the splintered front door drifted through the air like ash. "This is a mistake," Isabella whispered, her voice shaking violently as she stared at the two tactical officers holding her husband pinned against the frame. "We are the Tylers! We host the district charity balls! We own half the properties on this ridge!" Haven let out a harsh, dry gasp, his cheek still pressed flat a

The cold wind whipped down the concrete avenue, driving heavy sheets of rain straight into the front of the residential tower. Isabella sat curled up on top of her muddy leather suitcase, her knees pulled tight against her chest while water dripped from the ends of her matted hair. Her expensive mascara had dissolved, leaving long black streaks down her pale, shivering cheeks. "Get up, Isabella," Haven barked through his chattering teeth, his voice barely audible over the roaring storm. He stood over her with his collar turned up against the gale, his wet suit jacket clinging heavily to his narrow shoulders. "People are taking videos from across the street," Haven muttered, his bloodshot eyes darting toward the shop awnings on the far curb. "We cannot sit here like common vagrants on the sidewalk. Get your bags." Isabella did not move, he

"I built those partnerships from nothing!" Haven roared, his face flushing into a dark, mottled purple as veins bulged along his temples. "I negotiated every single regional clause! You cannot alter our operational strategy without my executive signature! I am the core foundation of Vax Company!" High above the conference table, set behind a row of thick, soundproof privacy glass in the raised executive viewing gallery, Johnson was quiet. His tall frame was firmer than ever, his hands resting easily in his trouser pockets. His eyes surveyed the panic-stricken room below with absolute calmness, observing Haven tantrums the way a scientist studies an insect trapped under glass. Mounted to a slender steel stand beside him, a high-definition tactical display flashed the encrypted personnel files of six different corporate liquidators. Johnson lifted his right han

Haven shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, digging his fingers deep into the lining as he forced his chin high into the air. He took three slow, heavy steps down the side of the table, making sure the heels of his leather shoes struck the floor with a loud clatter. "You have crossed a line that you cannot walk back from, Director Ethan," Haven growled, stepping so close that his chest nearly touched the edge of the liquidator leather case. "I am giving you ten seconds to pick up this iron box, apologize to my wife, and walk out of those double doors." Director Ethan did not take his eyes off, nor did he shift his weight on his dark leather shoes by a single millimeter. He stood still, his eyes staring straight into Haven's face through his thin wire-rimmed glasses without showing a trace of warmth or fear. "Or what, Mr. Tyler?" Director Ethan asked, his