Julian doesn’t take the driver.
He doesn’t notify security.
He doesn’t call ahead.
He drives himself.
The steering wheel feels unfamiliar beneath his hands—textured leather, cool despite the late afternoon sun. He parks directly in front of the building that used to list Evelyn as Executive Director. The façade rises in polished steel and glass, reflecting the city back in fractured angles.
For a moment, he sits in the car and studies his own reflection in the windshield.
Contained. Controlled. Unreadable.
He steps out.
The lobby doors part with a soft hydraulic sigh. The interior is bright, modern, neutral. Reception desk centered. Security to the right. Cameras discreet but visible.
The guard recognizes him. Not by warmth—by reputation.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Vale.”
“I’m here to
