Part I
Morning light stretched across the office like a quiet apology. The city outside pulsed back to life-horns, headlines, the relentless rhythm of money-but inside Hartman Tower, everything hushed.
Evelyn poured two cups of coffee. The ritual felt absurdly intimate after months of war. Adrian stirred on the couch, a hand over his eyes as if the sunlight were too honest.
“You’re awake,” she said.
He smiled without looking up. “I was pretending not to be, in case you needed a head start leaving.”
“I don’t run anymore,” she answered softly. “We established that.”
He sat up, hair mussed, shirt still open at the collar. Vulnerable Adrian Blackwood was disarming in ways billion‑dollar suits never managed.
“Then what now?” he asked. “You own pieces of my company, your board despises me
