The Hoffman residence slept under a heavy hush until the buzz of a phone sliced through the dark.
At 10:50 p.m., the screen on Sawyer Hoffman's bedside table lit up, flooding the dim room with a blue glow. Harper stirred faintly beside him, shifting under the duvet. Sawyer groaned, rubbed his eyes, and snatched the phone before the vibration could wake her completely.
"Who is this?" His voice was rough, clipped with irritation.
A frantic male voice cracked through the receiver. "M–Mr. Hoffman! It's—sir—it's urgent—Adrian—"
Sawyer jerked the phone away from his ear at the sheer volume. "Speak clearly," he snapped, voice dropping into the low register that had made entire boardrooms flinch. "It's the middle of the night. Stop shouting and say it again."
The secretary's breathless explanation came in a rush, each word tumbling over the next. "Adrian's been arrested—LAPD custody—your attorney's already en route to Los Angeles—sir, it's serious—"
