Dorian Vance did not move. He stood on the polished granite floor of the eighteen-floor corridor, watching a dog that had killed two men in defense of his estate press his massive,

Thirty minutes later, Marin found herself sitting on a butter-soft leather sofa in the private penthouse office on the fortieth floor of Vance Tower.

She was still holding a steaming porcelain mug of tea that Dorian’s personal assistant had handed her without a word. Titan was lying across her feet, his heavy head resting directly on her right shoe, acting as a living furnace against the late-night chill.

Dorian sat behind his walnut desk, two thick paper files open before him. The office was quiet, illuminated only by the soft glow of desktop lamps and the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rain-slicked skyline of Chicago.

Across from him stood Marcus Kane, Dorian’s head of security and his most trusted advisor—a man built like a vault who had served with Special Forces before joining the Vance family.

"The accident report was altered, Mr. Vance," Marcus said, laying a single printed sheet beside the files. "Daniel Caldwell was listed as sole operator on the main distribution panel at the West Loop site. The official report filed with the state claims he failed to lock out the primary breaker before initiating repairs."

Marin set her tea down on the glass table with a sharp click. "That's a lie," she said, her voice shaking with an anger she could no longer suppress. "Daniel was obsessive about safety. He kept three separate lockout padlocks in his toolkit. He never touched a live line without verifying it twice. He told me the main breaker was faulty three days before he died, but the site manager told him to keep working anyway because the inspectors were coming!"

Dorian looked up from the file. "Who was the site manager?"

Marcus checked his tablet. "A guy named Victor Cruz. He was on Apex Maintenance’s payroll before being transferred to Vance Development as a site supervisor."

"And who signed off on Cruz's transfer?" Dorian asked.

"Garrett Boyd," Marcus answered cleanly.

A heavy silence descended on the room.

Dorian leaned back, crossing his long legs. The eighteen million dollars that had disappeared from his shell accounts wasn't just corporate embezzlement. It was systematic, long-term corruption. Garrett Boyd hadn't just been stealing money; he had been using Vance sub-contractors—like Apex Maintenance—to cut corners, bypass safety regulations, cover up workplace fatalities, and pocket the difference in structural budgets.

Daniel Caldwell hadn't died because he was careless. He had died because someone had bypassed a thirty-dollar safety relay to save fifty thousand dollars on a commercial installation, and Garrett Boyd had paid Victor Cruz to make sure the widow got nothing.

Dorian looked at Marin. "When Daniel died, you filed a wrongful death claim."

"Yes," Marin said, her throat tight. "And two weeks later, the company lawyer showed up at my apartment with a signed waiver. They claimed Daniel had signed a safety liability release forty-eight hours before the accident. The judge dismissed the case."

"Did Daniel sign it?"

"Daniel was in the hospital with a concussion forty-eight hours before the accident!" Marin cried out, her fists clenching in her lap. "He was home with me! He never signed that paper! They forged it!"

Dorian glanced at Marcus. "Get the original liability waiver from the vault in the basement. I want a forensic handwriting analyst in this office by six in the morning."

"Yes, boss," Marcus nodded, turning to leave.

"And Marcus?" Dorian added.