The storm hit just as the Maybach pulled into the private underground garage of Silas’s building. Thunder rattled the concrete walls, a deep, percussive boom that vibrated through the soles of Harper’s heels as she stepped out of the car.

By the time the private elevator doors opened into the glas

Morning broke over the city in a wash of pale gold, casting long shadows across the glass walls of Silas’s penthouse. Harper woke with a start, her cheek pressed against the soft velvet of the sofa cushions. The storm had passed, leaving behind a crisp, silent dawn.

She was alone on the couch, but

The ride to the arts district was charged with a crackling, electric tension. Harper sat in the back of the Maybach, staring out the tinted windows as the familiar streets blurred past.

She was dressed for war. She wore a tailored, crimson power suit that fit her like a second skin, paired with ra