The call came through on a Thursday morning, barely three weeks after we locked down the Remaking Council.
Selene delivered the message to the penthouse personally. She didn't have to. She could have fired off an encrypted text. She’d been managing the Sterling fallout for months—the brutal bankruptcy hearings, the aggressive asset liquidation, the desperate, pathetic legal appeals Julian kept throwing at the wall from whatever cheap rental he ended up in after Vivienne dumped him. But she hand-delivered this one, which meant the math had changed.
"Julian is requesting a formal sit-down," she said, standing in the doorway.
I didn't even look up from my desk. I was currently grinding through Dorian’s latest encrypted dispatch. He had tripped over another undocumented bloodline. Southeast
