I bolt upright in my silk sheets, my heart pounding against my ribs. The phrase "Phase Two" echoes in my mind, triggering a flood of memories I'd buried long ago. The darkness of my room in Oliver's penthouse feels suffocating as the past crashes over me like a tidal wave.
I was twelve. The heavy oak doors of my father's study weren't enough to muffle the raised voices inside. I'd snuck down the mansion's hallway past my bedtime, drawn by the unusual late-night commotion.
"This is my final offer, Sinclair," a deep voice had growled. Pressing my eye to the keyhole, I saw a younger version of Oliver's father, Richard James, his face flushed with anger.
My father stood behind his massive mahogany desk, his shoulders tense. "You can't possibly expect me to agree to this, Richard. The techno
