Zayn’s driver pulled the black sports car into a narrow, graffiti-scarred alleyway behind "The Daily Grind," a coffee shop that smelled more of stale cigarette smoke and desperation than artisanal beans. He’d chosen it precisely for its anonymity, its stark contrast to the gilded cages of the Carter Estate or the polished towers of the Hayes Group. It was the kind of place where dreams came to die, and sometimes, to be reborn.
He stepped out, the crisp fabric of his tailored suit feeling alien against the grime-streaked brick. The phantom ache in his chest was a dull throb, a constant reminder of the life he’d lost and the one he was now fiercely protecting. Aria was safe, for now. He’d seen her off, heard her brave goodbye, and felt the primal satisfaction of having stripped Vanessa of h
