The SEC notification sat on the rumpled velvet of the mattress. Outside, the regular hum of the penthouse climate control felt horribly out of place against the wreckage of the master suite.
Marcus didn't drop the paper, but his grip loosened until the page fluttered, catching on a loose thread of the blanket. He walked out of the bedroom, his steps uneven, his large frame swaying slightly as if the gravity in the room had shifted. He stopped in the center of the ruined office, staring down at the shattered glass of his desk.
Chloe stayed by the threshold. She watched his shoulders rise and fall, the physical manifestation of a lifetime of programming—the belief that his father was a harsh but ultimate guardian of the Vance name—splintering into nothing.
“He’s liquidating his own son,”
