The next morning, the studio door unlocked not with Julian’s heavy, measured tread, but with the frantic, chaotic clicking of stilettos.

Sienna Blake practically danced into the underground bunker, followed by two massive, rolling garment racks pushed by an exhausted-looking assistant. Sienna look

The heavy steel door to the underground studio flew open with such force that it rebounded off the soundproofed wall, the hydraulic hinges screaming in protest.

Julian Cross stood in the threshold, his chest heaving, his tailored suit jacket unbuttoned. His eyes darted from the glittering, jagged

The bunker was silent, save for the rhythmic, pulsing bassline of the track Lyra was manipulating on the screen.

It was 2:00 AM. Lyra had been working for fourteen hours straight, her fingers flying across the neural-link keyboard with the precision of a surgeon. The master access Julian had grant