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

The silence of my hotel suite was a heavy, suffocating blanket. I sat on the edge of the velvet armchair, the city lights of the skyline reflecting off the floor-to-ceiling windows. With slow, agonizing precision, I used my left hand to unclasp the custom silk sling I had worn to the gallery.

I le