A week. Seven days can be an eternity or a blink. For Thorne Industries, it was the former—a slow-motion bleed-out on the stock market, a PR nightmare replayed in an endless loop on every business channel. For me, it was the latter. A blink. A compressed, relentless period of strategy sessions, legal consultations, and sleepless nights fueled by black coffee and the cold fire of purpose.
I wasn’t hiding. I was headquartered. The penthouse suite Marcus had secured for me was less a residence and more a command center overlooking the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the glittering urban sprawl, a kingdom I had once been promised and was now preparing to conquer. Data streams scrolled across a triptych of monitors, charting the fallout of Julian’s public humiliation.
When the alert
