Evelyn’s POV
Morning arrived colourless. The storm had wrung every hue out of the sky, leaving only the smell of wet concrete and ash drifting in the air.
When I stepped onto the Hartman terrace, the city looked distant, as if still deciding whether to believe everything the headlines claimed.
Every news feed read the same:
“Arson at Brooklyn Warehouse Linked to Hartman Scandal.”
“Evelyn Hartman Questioned in Connection with Fraud Investigation.”
The photos were grainy, warped by smoke but the silhouette was mine.
Julian burst through the doorway holding his tablet. “Half of them are calling it corporate terrorism. Their source says you ‘escaped police custody.’”
“I was never in custody,” I said flatly.
“Doesn’t matter,” Elias replied behind him, already dressed for a damage‑contr
