EMMA
The penthouse was a tomb of shadows, lit only by the cold, rhythmic flash of the emergency backup lights on the terrace. The service elevator groaned somewhere deep in the building's spine, a slow, mechanical heartbeat ascending toward us.
Gabriel was already a shadow among shadows, his presence a low-frequency hum of lethal intent. But I didn't go to him. I didn't reach for his hand. Instead, I sat on the floor in the center of the darkened living room, the silver thumb drive clutched in my palm.
"Emma, we need to move to the secondary exit," Gabriel hissed, his eyes twin embers of gold in the dark.
"No," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I’ve been looking at this like an architect, Gabriel. I’ve been looking at the structure he built around me—the lawsuits, the leaks, the sabotage.
