The city lights blurred past the window as we sped toward the financial district.

The Vance Tower rose up like a dark pillar against the cloudy night sky.

We took the private elevator straight to the penthouse office, the ride silent and fast.

The office was vast, dark, and smelled of polished wood and expensive leather.

Liam turned on a single desk lamp, casting long shadows across the room.

We waited by the floor-to-ceiling glass window, watching the harbor below.

Ten minutes later, the security light on the desk flashed green.

The heavy mahogany door clicked open.

Darrow walked in, his expensive overcoat damp from the mist outside.

His hair was messy, and his tie was pulled loose at his collar.

He did not look like the powerful businessman I had seen at the social galas.

He looked like a man who had spent the last two hours watching his empire crumble.

“You play dirty, Vance,” Darrow said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

“I protect what is mine,” Liam said, not moving from behind his desk.

Darrow looked at me, his eyes lingering on the faint scars near my hairline.