London, England.
Nathaniel Frost stood alone in his office, watching snow drift over the Thames.
He looked every bit the respected businessman—tailored suit, silver hair, impeccable manners.
Nothing about him suggested he had spent decades manipulating events from the shadows.
He picked up an old fountain pen and signed a Christmas card.
Then he slid it into an envelope.
“For Emily Adams,” he said quietly.
His assistant frowned.
“Should I arrange… the usual delivery?”
Nathaniel smiled.
“No.”
“This one should arrive on time.”
⸻
Austin
The Hunter home had become a command center.
Maps covered the dining table.
Harbor files lay stacked beside laptops and evidence bags.
Marcus pinned Nathaniel Frost’s photograph to the investigation board.
“So this is the man Michael feared.”
