The elevator didn't chime. The heavy bronze doors simply slid open, and the silence of the penthouse was instantly invaded by the sharp, authoritative click of expensive shoes on polished stone.
Chloe didn’t look up from her tablet. She sat at the long dining table, her fingers moving across a complex spreadsheet detailing the short-selling patterns. Marcus, standing by the window, turned slowly. His spine, already rigid from two days of navigating the presence of his ex-fiancée, seemed to harden by another degree.
Arthur Vance walked in. He was seventy years old, built like a block of granite, and carried an aura of absolute consequence that made the vast room feel instantly small. Behind him, trying and failing to match his heavy, deliberate stride, was Vanessa. She wore an oversized w
