The private elevator of the Solmere Hotel was lined with dark burl wood and brushed bronze, a claustrophobic box that smelled faintly of expensive leather and ozone.

The private elevator of the Solmere Hotel was lined with dark burl wood and brushed bronze, a claustrophobic box that smelled faintly of expensive leather and ozone. Seraphina stood in the center, watching the floor numbers light up in harsh amber digits above the door. 3, 4, 5... Her right palm throbbed where the marble had scraped the skin raw, a dull, stinging reminder of the lobby floor and Odessa Kingsley’s manicured fingers digging into her wrist.

Maximilian stood beside her, his breath coming in shallow, controlled gasps. He kept his eyes fixed on the digital display, his hand hovering nervously over the master key fob in his pocket.

"Seraphina," Maximilian murmured, breaking the heavy silence of the cabin. "If you had just given us word—if you had contacted the legal department before showing up—we could have secured the entire perimeter. We could have had Federal marshals waiting in the boardroom."

"And they would have been tipped off twenty-four hours in advance," Seraphina replied, her voice flat, devoid of the exhaustion that her body clearly felt. She didn't look at him. She stared straight ahead at the reflection of her own face in the polished bronze paneling—the pale skin, the sharp angle of her jaw, the dark, unyielding eyes that had inherited the exact frost of her late mother, Eleanora. "My mother trusted you, Maximilian. She trusted the entire executive board. Look where that got her. Dead under mysterious circumstances, and her signature forged on asset-transfer documents across three continents."

"I had nothing to do with the forgeries," Maximilian said quickly, his voice tight with defensive panic. "I was Eleanora’s most loyal—"

"Loyalty in this building has a price tag," Seraphina cut him off, her tone like breaking ice. "Let’s see if your price is still within my budget once we hit the top floor."

The elevator hummed as it approached the final stretch. 38, 39, 40. There was no button for the fortieth floor on standard keypads; it required a biometric scan or a master override code known only to the CEO and the head of security—a security head who, as Seraphina well knew, had been systematically replaced by men loyal to Julian Vance six months ago.

Julian. Her cousin. The man who had spent the last five years acting as the benevolent, charismatic face of the Solmere empire while systematically gutting its foundation, selling off regional properties to offshore shell companies, and turning the flagship hotel into a laundering machine for illicit capital. He was the one who had sent the text message this morning. He was the one who thought she was still buried under six feet of dirt in a nameless cemetery outside of Marseille.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft, pneumatic sigh.

The fortieth floor did not resemble a hotel. It was a sprawling penthouse suite converted into an executive war room. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a panoramic, smog-blurred view of the morning skyline, while the interior was a cavern of minimalist Italian marble, acoustic-paneled walls, and heavy mahogany doors. At the far end of the long gallery, double doors made of frosted glass bore the gold- embossed legend: EXECUTIVE BOARDROOM.

Warm light spilled from beneath the crack of those doors. Muffled voices drifted down the hall—laughter, the clink of crystal glasses, the authoritative drone of a man reading out financial metrics.

Julian Vance was in his element.

Seraphina took a step forward, but Maximilian caught her by the elbow. "Wait. Let me go in first. Let me announce—"

"If you announce me, they’ll have time to shred the hard copies in the credenza," Seraphina said, shaking off his hand with a sharp twist of her shoulder. "Keep your mouth shut, stand by the door, and look like the terrified subordinate you currently are."

She walked down the hall, her boots making no sound on the thick, sound-dampening wool carpet. Every step felt deliberate, grounding the phantom pain in her knees and the sharp sting of her palm. She had spent three years living in the shadows of Southern Europe, running a low-profile investigation agency, learning how men like Julian operated, how they stole, how they killed, and—most importantly—how arrogant they became when they thought they had won.