EMPIRE OF GLASS

First fissure

The rain slicked streets below Black Tower gleamed like liquid glass, but inside the penthouse the air was heavy, waiting.

Stephanie worked late, alone—or so she thought. The only sound was the soft click of her keyboard and the steady tick of the antique clock on the wall.

Then the lights flickered.

A blackout swept through the tower floor. Her screens died. Silence fell, thick and absolute.

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t move. Whoever had engineered this wanted fear. They wouldn’t get it.

A shadow shifted near the door. A breath, a step—

And suddenly Darius was there, knife in hand, his body angled between her and the dark. “Stay behind me,” he ordered, voice low, lethal.

“I don’t take orders—”

The window shattered. A shard of glass sang through the air, embedding itself in the leather of her chair.

Stephanie’s pulse leapt, icy rage mixing with something hotter.

Darius yanked her against him, shielding her as alarms wailed. He scanned the skyline, g*n drawn, a silhouette of pure violence. Whoever had been aiming for her had vanished into the night.

The emergency generators hummed back to life, flooding the office with cold white light. Shards glittered across the floor like diamonds spilled from a broken crown.

Darius’s grip eased, but not much. “That wasn’t random.”

Her voice was steel, but it shook just enough for him to notice. “Nothing in my life is random.”

He turned her to face him, eyes searching hers. And that was when he saw it—something she hadn’t meant to reveal. A folder scattered across her desk in the chaos, papers spilling open.

At the top of one: a death certificate.

Victor Blakes.

Her father.

Darius’s gaze snapped to hers. “Your father didn’t die of natural causes, did he?”

Her mask slammed back into place, colder than ever. She gathered the papers with swift, sharp movements. “This conversation is over.”

But as she swept past him, her hand trembled against the glass door. And for the first time since he’d met her, Darius knew the truth.

The Ice Queen had cracks. And through them, someone was trying to drag her into the dark.

Darius didn’t follow her immediately. He stood there, knife still loose in his grip, staring at the name that glared up at him from the scattered folder. Victor Blakes. A man whispered in hushed tones, a titan whose empire had teeth. And if Stephanie was his daughter, she wasn’t just a target. She was in a war waiting to happen.

He holstered his g*n, the movement measured, then crossed the room to the window. The jagged hole gaped like an open wound, glass still tinkling down the tower’s side. Whoever had taken the shot had been precise. They hadn’t missed her by accident. They wanted her rattled, not dead. At least not yet.

He glanced back at the door. Her heels clicked down the hall, fast, purposeful, but beneath it, he heard the break in her rhythm. Hesitation. Fear.

Darius followed.