The call came just after dawn, jolting Lena Rivers awake. She blinked against the glare of her phone's screen: **Marcus Kane**. The morning light seeped through the loft's skylight, illuminating half‑packed garment racks and scattered sketches. Max slept soundly in his crib, toy fox clutched to his chest.
Lena swiped to answer. “Marcus?"
“Ms. Rivers," his voice was taut. “You need to get to the Blackwood archives—now."
Her heart tightened. “Why? I have fittings starting at nine."
“Priority shift. You're not cleared yet, but I override. Come alone. Bring your ID."
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Send a car. I'll be there in twenty."
“Understood. I'll patch you through to security on arrival." He hung up.
Lena dressed swiftly: charcoal trousers, silk blouse, blazer—funct
