I heard the heavy leather of Arthur’s chair creak as he stood up.

“Don’t move,” Arthur said.

His voice was a low, steady command in the sudden blackness.

The rain continued to lash against the thick glass of the penthouse window.

A pale blue light flared as Arthur struck a match, illuminating his sharp jawline and the cold look in his eyes.

He lit a single wax candle on his desk, and the flame cast long, dancing shadows across the room.

“A power failure in this building is never an accident,” he said.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I looked at the small flame.

“Is it Tristan?” I asked.

Arthur blew out the match, a thin curl of gray smoke rising between us.

“We will find out,” he said. “For now, the gala tomorrow is your priority.”

He stood close to me, his presence looming in the candlelight.

“He wants you there to watch,” Arthur murmured. “So watch. And tell me what you see.”

The door to the office clicked open, and the bright beam of a tactical flashlight cut through the dark.