General Thorne’s silent professional escort ended not at the penthouse, but at Cassius Marlowe’s own sprawling modernist mansion on the Obsidian Bay cliffs. The message was clear: Cassius was contained under internal audit, and officially quarantined from Marlowe corporate affairs. The surveillance was palpable.
Cassius slammed the heavy oak door to his study, the sound echoing the violence churning in his chest. He was adrift in a sea of his own failure, his rage now replaced by a cold sickening realization of Kaelen’s brilliance.
He had believed Kaelen to be a man driven by simple revenge for his dead sister, capable only of spectacular but predictable hacks. Now, Cassius understood. Kaelen had not just hacked the company; he had spent thr
