He reached out his hand, his fingers hovering just above the glass of the phone.

Before he could touch it, the screen went black, the call missed.

A second later, a text message popped up on the lock screen.

It was a single image.

It was a photograph of the front of my atelier on Fifth Avenue.

The glass window was shattered.

In the center of the broken glass, a single pair of tailor’s shears was driven deep into the wooden floorboards.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

My hands began to shake as I stared at the small screen.

“They know,” I whispered.

Aries stood up, his face hardening as he stared at the image.

“They know you helped me,” he said.

He picked up his phone, his thumb tapping the screen to call his remaining loyal guards.

Before the call could connect, the power in the penthouse abruptly cut out.

The warm lights vanished, plunging the entire room into absolute darkness.

Only the faint grey light of the rainy Manhattan skyline filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The hum of the ventilation system stopped.