Elena slept badly.
The image of Sophia Lang standing in the doorway kept returning the polished coat, the cold smile, the way her eyes had moved over Elena as if measuring something she already intended to break. Richard Crowe’s earlier call sat beside it in her mind, polite on the surface and sharp underneath. By the time morning came she felt the strain of both encounters sitting behind her eyes.
She dressed carefully, the private terms still in place out of continuity rather than fresh instruction, and reached Vale Holdings earlier than usual. The executive floor was quiet. Adrian’s door stood open. He was on a call when she entered, speaking in low, precise tones that carried the controlled edge she had begun to recognise as anger held tightly in check. He glanced up, met her eyes, a
