The penthouse was suffocatingly quiet. For the first time since the chandelier fell, I was entirely alone in the sprawling, glass-walled monument to Julian’s wealth. The silence should have been peaceful, but it only amplified the dull, unrelenting throb in my right hand.

I stood in the center of

The grand ballroom of the Zenith Gallery was a sea of champagne flutes, flashing cameras, and the hushed, pretentious whispers of the city’s elite. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the modern art exhibits, reflecting off the diamonds draped around the necks of billionaires and socia

The glowing screen of Julian Thorne’s phone illuminated the dark interior of his Maybach, casting harsh shadows across his clenched jaw. He stared at the PDF attachment, his eyes scanning the stark, black-and-white legal text for the fifth time since he had stormed out of the gallery.

*Vance v. Th