(Wyatt Caldwell’s POV)
He watched the city from his penthouse window.
It was burning.
Not in flames — not yet — but in headlines and whispers. In open investigations and university board meetings. In reporters swarming the front gates of Halston like wolves sensing blood.
He had built this place.
With silence and money. With sharp suits and sharper contracts. With his name carved into buildings and lecture halls like a crown on a kingdom no one dared question.
Until now.
Until her.
Until Emery.
Wyatt turned away from the window.
He hated that name.
She looked too much like her mother.
⸻
He poured himself a scotch. Sat at his desk. Let the silence stretch like a noose.
His phone buzzed.
Dean.
Again.
He ignored the call.
Dean was useful — arrogant, insecure, easily bought.
