THE KASTELLAN HEIR.

THE ANONYMOUS BOARD.

Three days. That was what Warrick had promised, and Warrick, it turned out, was a man who kept his promises the way a butcher keeps his knives, sharp and without sentiment.

On the first day, Brentford Design's creditors began to wake up. Ronan sat at his enormous desk on the top floor of the Halloway City tower, watching numbers scroll across a wall-sized screen while Sienna narrated in a low, even voice.

"Warrick's team bought up the firm's outstanding supplier debt this morning," she said. "Forty-one separate invoices. Every one of them was quietly transferred to a holding company called Halcyon Ventures."

"Which is?"

"A shell. Registered in three countries, owned by a fourth shell, owned by you." She swiped her tablet. "As of nine a.m., Brentford Design owes Halcyon a little over eleven million dollars, and the payment terms have just been called in. All at once."

Ronan leaned back and let the silence stretch. He thought of the tiny cubicle on the ground floor. The stale coffee. The way Preston used to stroll past his glass wall without so much as glancing in.

"Does Preston know?"

"He will by lunch."

He did. By lunch, Preston Halvane was in his corner office on the sixth floor of Brentford Design, tie loosened, phone pressed so hard against his ear that his knuckles had gone white. His secretary had stopped bringing coffee an hour ago because he kept throwing the cups.

"What do you mean, called in?" he shouted. "I have a contract! Net ninety!"

"The contract was assigned, Mr. Halvane," said the calm voice of a lawyer on the other end. "The new holder has invoked the acceleration clause. You have until Friday."

"Friday? Who is the new holder? Give me a name!"

"Halcyon Ventures. They've asked me to say that a representative board will meet with you regarding a possible rescue arrangement."

Preston hung up and stared at the wall. Halcyon. He had never heard of it. But a rescue arrangement meant somebody wanted something, and everybody wanted something. That, at least, he understood.

He dialed Vivienne.

"Babe, don't panic," he said the moment she picked up, forcing warmth into his voice. "It's a small cash flow hiccup. I'm handling it."

"Preston, the florist wants the second deposit today. And my mother says the caterers are asking about the balance."

"Tell them it's coming."

"From where?"

"From me, Vivienne. Trust me." He rubbed his eyes. "Have I ever let you down?"

There was a pause on the line that lasted a heartbeat too long. "Just fix it," she said, and hung up.

By evening the rumors had leaked. Two clients pulled their contracts. A bank froze a line of credit. The design floor, which had been humming with pointless confidence that morning, went quiet in that particular way an office does when everyone suddenly starts updating their résumés.

In the mansion, Ronan read Sienna's summary with a glass of water untouched at his elbow.

"You're enjoying this," she observed.

"I'm not sure that's the word." He turned the invitation over in his hand, the cream card with its silver flowers. "For four years I thought I was the problem. That if I worked harder, loved harder, was better, she'd look at me the way she looked at him. It turns out I was just in the wrong seat at the table."

Sienna set her tablet down. "And now?"

"Now I'm the one holding the table."

She studied him for a moment, and something flickered in her expression, not quite concern, not quite pride. "Be careful with that feeling, Ronan. Your grandfather used to say revenge is a good servant and a terrible master."

"Did he do it well?"

"He never did it at all," Sienna said quietly. "He spent twenty years looking for you instead."

The words landed harder than she meant them to. Ronan looked away, out at the dark lawn where Emeric's silver dog, an enormous, unhurried animal that had inherited the old man's habits along with his house, was patrolling the hedges.

"Set the meeting," he said. "The anonymous board. Thursday, ten a.m., at the Halloway tower."

"You want to sit in on it?"

"I want to run it."

---

Thursday arrived gray and bruised. Preston dressed for it like a man going to a funeral that might turn out to be his own: charcoal suit, silver tie, the good watch. He rehearsed a speech in the elevator. He would be humble, but not desperate. Confident, but open. He'd flatter their vision. Investors loved to hear their own vision echoed back.

The reception desk on the top floor of the Kastellan tower was made of a single slab of marble. The receptionist did not look up when he arrived.

"Mr. Halvane for the Halcyon board."

"They're ready for you." She pressed a button. "Room four. Please leave your phone at the desk."

"My phone?"

"It's policy."

He handed it over, feeling suddenly smaller. A guard in a dark suit walked him down a long corridor, past frosted glass doors that showed only silhouettes. The walls were hung with paintings that Preston, who fancied himself a man of taste, guessed were originals. Each one probably cost more than his car.

Room four had a heavy oak door and no window.

"Chairman's compliments," the guard said. "He'll be with you shortly."

"Chairman?" Preston repeated. "Of Halcyon?"

But the guard had already gone.

Preston stepped inside. The room was long and dim, with a polished conference table that could seat thirty and a single leather chair positioned at its far end, its high back turned toward him. Behind it, a wall of glass looked over the city. Rain had begun to fall, streaking the glass in silver threads.

Someone was sitting in the chair. Preston could see the outline of a shoulder.

"Gentlemen," he began, pasting on his best smile, "thank you for making time. I know Brentford Design isn't the largest name in your portfolio, but I want to assure you that with a modest bridge—"

"Sit down, Preston."

The voice was quiet. Level. It did not belong to a stranger.

Preston's smile stayed on his face a half second after the rest of him had frozen. That voice. He had heard it say good morning, sireight hundred times through a glass wall. He had heard it whisper please, not here to a woman he had been sleeping with.

No. It wasn't possible. He was tired. He was stressed. The voice just sounded similar.

"Sit," said the voice again.

His legs obeyed before his pride could stop them. He pulled out a chair midway down the table and lowered himself into it, gripping the armrests.

The leather chair at the end of the room turned slowly.

Ronan sat there, one ankle over his knee, in a suit the color of midnight. No glasses. No slouch. His hands rested lightly on the armrests, and on his left wrist, catching the gray light from the window, was a watch that made Preston's own look like a toy.

"Hello, Preston," said Ronan.

The rain hammered the glass. In the corridor outside, a door clicked shut, and Preston realized, far too late, that it had been locked.