The study was quiet, the only sound the faint ticking of an ornate clock on the mantel. Outside, the city’s hum was distant, muffled by thick glass and the walls of Ethan’s penthouse. But inside, the tension was palpable, as if the air itself had been charged by the storm he had left behind hours ago.
Ethan stood near the window, shoulders rigid, eyes scanning the skyline yet not really seeing it. His mind replayed the events of the last few days—the frantic calls, the panic, the kidnapping, and the shadow of Marcus’s schemes looming ever closer.
“Ethan,” a calm voice broke through the heavy silence. Daniel Cross stepped into the room, hands tucked into his pockets, his posture relaxed but alert. He had the kind of presence that commanded trust without demanding it—a trait that made him
