The rain hammered against the floor‑to‑ceiling windows of Max’s house, a steady percussion that matched the thrum of my thoughts. I’d been his personal assistant for three weeks now, and every day felt like a balancing act on a tightrope made of spreadsheets, encrypted messages, and half whispered warnings. My desk, a sleek glass slab beside his, was littered with contracts, flight itineraries, and a growing stack of "urgent" notes from Detective Khalil. I’d never imagined that "PA" could mean "partner in crime‑fighting," but here I was, typing up meeting minutes while my mind replayed the sound of gunfire from that warehouse weeks ago.
Max walked in, his coat still damp from the storm, and tossed his keys onto the console. "Lily, we need to talk about Matthew," he said, his voice low, ey
