POV: Maxwell
I stood in the stairwell in Brooklyn, staring at the closed door of apartment 3B.
She had just told me she was leaving the country. Permanently. And then she had shut the door in my face without a single ounce of hesitation.
The sound of that latch clicking shut felt loud. It echoed in the concrete stairwell. For a full minute, my brain short-circuited. I couldn’t process the words. Fiona wasn’t just hiding from me in the city; she was trying to put a rift between us.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, snapping me out of my shock with a vibration. I pulled it out without looking, my thumb already swiping before I recognized the name on the screen. It was Russo, my private investigator. If he was calling me at this hour, it wasn’t good news.
“Mr. Jordan,” Russo said, his vo
