The offer arrived at dawn, delivered by a convoy of black SUVs that looked like money given automotive form. Ten billion dollars. Not for land, not for resources, not for political influence—for one of his week-old children.
Liam stood at his office window, watching the vehicles idle at their main gate while protestors, pilgrims, and media created a human maze that stretched half a mile down the mountain road. The coffee in his hand had gone cold twenty minutes ago, but he kept holding it anyway, needing something to grip that wasn't someone's throat.
"Richard Cromwell himself," Caleb announced from behind Liam's desk, designer glasses reflecting the glow of his laptop screen. The leopard shifter's usual composure had cracked slightly—ten billion would do that. "Tech mogul, pharmaceutica
