Rain continued long after midnight.
By the time Damien, Roman, and Vivian returned upstairs to the thirty-second floor, the city outside had dissolved into blurred lights and thunderstorm shadows. The office felt colder now, every hallway too quiet, every reflection against the glass walls unsettling in ways Vivian couldn’t explain.
Nothing about tonight felt normal anymore.
Not the break-in.
Not the mysterious man downstairs.
And definitely not the possibility that Clara Whitmore might still be alive.
Vivian stood near the windows inside Damien’s office, arms folded tightly while her thoughts spiraled dangerously.
“If Clara survived,” she said slowly, “why would someone fake her death?”
Neither man answered immediately.
Damien walked toward the liquor cabinet near the bookshelf a
