By the time the third passenger asked to be moved out of first class, one of the newborns had cried himself so weak that his voice barely sounded human anymore.

The Maybach pulled into a secure, subterranean parking garage beneath a monolithic glass tower near K Street. Private elevator doors opened directly from the parking bay, whisking us up to the executive penthouse suite before my pulse had even settled from the madness at Union Station.

The penthouse was a cathedral of glass, steel, and minimalist art, overlooking the Washington skyline. But right now, it looks less like an office and more like a tactical command center.

Three corporate lawyers in sharp charcoal suits stood up as we walked out of the elevator. Near the floor-to-ceiling windows, an older man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses—evidently Director Vance from the Department of Labor—was sipping a cup of black coffee while staring nervously at the view.

"Roman," Director Vance said, setting his cup down immediately. "Thank God. The press office is already melting down. TMZ has three different blurry photos of you and... and Miss Sterling exiting the train."

Roman handed sleeping Jude to the waiting pediatric nurse, who whisked the triplets off toward a nursery wing at the back of the penthouse.

"Let them melt down, Arthur," Roman said smoothly, walking over to the mahogany wet bar and pouring himself a finger of scotch. He didn't offer any to the rest of us. "Did you bring the file I requested?"

Director Vance cleared his throat, casting an uneasy glance in my direction. "I brought it, Roman. But we need to talk about protocol. You can't just reschedule a federal panel hearing with twenty minutes' notice, and you certainly can't expect me to sign off on a fast-track policy advisory appointment for someone who hasn't completed her master's thesis."

I stood near the edge of the sleek marble foyer, feeling completely out of my depth. My faded denim jacket suddenly felt like a neon sign flashing impostor across my chest.

"Mr. Vance," I said, stepping forward before Roman could speak. "You don't have to worry. I didn't come to Washington looking for handouts or fast-track executive positions. I applied for the entry-level analyst position fair and square. If I'm not qualified, I won't take the job."

Director Vance blinked, surprised by my directness. He looked from me to Roman, whose jaw tightened into a hard line.

"You are more than qualified, Miss Sterling," Roman said, his voice as hard as iron. "Your undergraduate thesis at Columbia on supply chain labor inefficiencies in urban transit hubs was cited by three federal subcommittees last year. You've been working two retail jobs in Queens because the academic pipeline is rigged to keep out anyone who doesn't have a trust fund."

Silence fell over the room. I stared at him, stunned. "How do you know about my thesis?"

"I read dossiers on everyone who touches my life," Roman replied without a shred of apology. "And right now, you matter a great deal more than you realize."

Before I could process that loaded statement, the heavy oak double doors of the penthouse burst open.

Marcus strode in, his phone pressed to his ear, his face pale and sweating.

"Mr. Vale," Marcus said, cutting across the room without waiting for permission. "We have a breach."

Roman slammed his scotch glass down onto the bar, the crystal cracked slightly against the marble. "What kind of breach?"

"Silas Kincaid," Marcus said grimly. "He didn't wait for the summit. He just filed an emergency injunction with the federal maritime commission claiming your shipping logistics network has compromised safety standards across three major East Coast ports. He's freezing your primary transport manifests as of two hours ago."

A collective gasp echoed through the room. Director Vance paled visibly.

"He can't do that without a federal audit," Vance stammered. "That takes weeks!"

"He did it through an ex parte emergency filing with a judge he bought off in the Eastern District," one of the corporate lawyers chimed in, frantically tapping away on a tablet. "Vale Shipping's entire domestic fleet is legally paralyzed as of midnight tonight. If we don't get an injunction lift by sunrise, we lose forty million dollars in perishable cargo alone."

The room spun into frantic chaos. Lawyers shouted over one another, arguing jurisdiction, injunction motions, and emergency appeals.

Through it all, Roman Vale stood completely still.

He didn't yell. He didn't curse. His dark eyes simply narrowed into slits of pure, calculating venom.

"Kincaid thinks he can choke me out while my sons are in the NICU," Roman stated, his voice dangerously low. "He thinks I'm distracted."

He turned slowly, looking past the scrambling lawyers, past Director Vance, straight at me.

"Mara," Roman said.

I swallowed hard. "Yes?"

"Your thesis on urban transit hubs," Roman said, stepping toward me with terrifying intensity. "You analyzed the exact proprietary bottleneck Kincaid just used to file his injunction."

My breath hitched. "I... yes. I mapped out the structural vulnerabilities in the automated dockside routing algorithms three years ago."