“Is my uncle upstairs?” Jonathan asked, his voice clipping the cold air.

“Yes, sir. He is in the executive suite.”

We bypassed the security turnstiles and entered the private elevator.

The ride up was silent, the pressure changing in my ears as we ascended.

My reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator looked pale and haunted.

Jonathan reached down and squeezed my fingers.

His hand was dry and hot.

“We stand together,” he whispered.

“Always,” I said.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime on the top floor.

The hallway was carpeted in thick, dark wool that swallowed the sound of our footsteps.

At the end of the hall, light spilled from the double glass doors of the boardroom.

We walked in without knocking.

Harrison Vance was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of amber scotch in his hand.

He did not turn around immediately.

He looked down at the glittering grid of the city below.

“I wondered how long it would take you to get here,” Harrison said, his voice smooth and devoid of warmth.