The air in the upper corridor turned entirely to lead.
Vivian stood frozen between two impossible traps. Behind her, the heavy, deliberate footsteps of Dominic Vance echoed up the grand mahogany staircase—the sound of a predator coming to claim his prize after a multi-million-dollar slaughter. In front of her, blocking the narrow service hallway, stood the towering frame of the head of domestic security, his high-frequency acoustic disruptor humming with a lethal, low-voltage vibration.
But it was the man standing right behind the guard who made the room spin violently.
Fuhad.
The soft, blue light from his burner phone caught the sharp lines of his face, casting long, familiar shadows against the wood-paneled walls. He wasn't wearing the tactical gear of Dominic’s elite security detail
