Luther came home late. The setting sun had long given way to the deep, impenetrable black of the evening, and the quiet rhythm of the mansion’s security system was the only sign of life. When he finally stepped into the master suite, he looked utterly exhausted. His suit was still perfectly tailored, but his tie was slightly loosened, and the sharp, controlled tension around his eyes was gone, replaced by bone-deep weariness.
A sharp pang of something akin to pity twisted in my heart. It almost crumbled the hardened wall of anger and hatred I had built. I briefly saw the flawed, human man beneath the polished corporate armor, the man who had just faked his own near-fatal injury and spent two days orchestrating a massive cover-up and retrieval mission.
But then, the memory of the sheer
