The next morning, the sun didn't so much rise over the Docks as it did struggle through a thick, iron-grey haze. Silas pulled his rusted, black pickup truck to the curb of the Sterling mansion at exactly 5:00 AM. He didn't go to the door. He didn't call. He just leaned on the horn, a long, abrasive blast that shattered the morning silence of the wealthy suburb.
He expected her to come out flustered, perhaps in another power suit or, better yet, complaining about the hour. Instead, the heavy oak doors swung open, and Ivy emerged.
She had traded the charcoal suit for slim-fit black tactical trousers and a heavy, high-collared jacket. Her hair was tucked into a beanie, and her face was scrubbed clean of the gala's porcelain perfection. She looked sharp, functional, and, to Silas’s immense i
