Claire Sullivan had always believed that the most dangerous rooms were not in battlefields or back alleys, but in places where power wore perfume and the air was cooled by money. That belief hardened when the double glass doors of the Westbrook Tower slid open before her, ushering her into a marble atrium that gleamed like a cathedral raised in honor of greed.
It was late afternoon in Los Angeles, when the sunlight turned bronze against glass towers. The city outside screamed with noise, but inside the Westbrook Tower the air was hushed, reverent, expectant. Men and women in tailored suits moved with clipped efficiency, their eyes lowered when they passed the receptionist's desk as though reverence for the empire was drilled into them at hire.
Claire straightened her blazer, smoothing away nerves that had no business showing. To the rest of the world she was Claire Sullivan, the woman with ink for blood, the journalist who had broken three engagement rings and twice as many political stories. To herself, she was just another Sullivan trying not to drown.
She handed her press pass across the reception desk, her expression cool.
"Claire Sullivan, Los Angeles Tribune," she said. "I have an appointment with Mr. Westbrook."
The receptionist's gaze flicked upward, startled. Few women came here asking for him, at least not with steel in their eyes. Claire could almost read the silent calculation: reporter, trouble, danger.
"Mr. Westbrook doesn't usually meet the press," the receptionist said.
Claire smiled, not kindly. "He made an exception."
And indeed, he had. Against his better judgment, Leo Westbrook had granted her twenty minutes of his time. Enough to bait her, not enough to wound him, at least, that was likely his assumption.
The elevator carried her upward, a smooth bullet slicing through floors until the doors opened on the fiftieth level. The carpet swallowed her footsteps as she stepped into silence. At the end of the hallway, guarded by dark wood and frosted glass, was the office of the man who turned fortunes into ashes.
The secretary announced her. The door swung inward.
Claire entered.
Leo Westbrook stood at the window, framed by the skyline. He was tall, easily six foot three and broad across the shoulders, his navy suit cut to emphasize strength without flash. His hair was black, his jaw clean but shadowed with the suggestion that he cared little for anything but the work in front of him.
He did not smile when he turned. He did not need to. The weight of him filled the room.
"Miss Sullivan." His voice was smooth, almost unremarkable, until you caught the steel underneath. "I hear you've been persistent."
"Persistence is a journalist's oxygen," she said, meeting his gaze.
Their eyes locked. She felt, for one dangerous heartbeat, as though she'd walked into a fire. It was not an attraction, not yet. It was awareness.
Leo gestured to the chair before his desk, a silent command. She sat, crossing one leg over the other, her notepad balanced casually but her pen uncapped, ready.
"You have twenty minutes," he said, glancing at his watch. "That's more than most people get."
"Generous," she murmured.
"I am not generous," he said. "So let's make this efficient."
Claire leaned forward slightly. "People say you built your empire on broken companies and ruined families. That you buy, strip, and sell, leaving ashes behind."
Leo's gaze did not flicker. "People say many things. Most of them are jealous."
"Jealousy doesn't explain the foreclosure notices, the lawsuits, the trail of bankrupt partners."
"Business is survival," Leo said. "I didn't invent the rules. I just refuse to lose to them."
She tapped her pen against the page, studying him. He was calm, too calm, as though he'd rehearsed every line long ago. But beneath the calm there was something restless, something coiled.
"And what about women?" she asked suddenly. "The rumors that you discard them the way you discard companies?"
His eyes narrowed. "Now you're off the record."
"On the record, off the record, it all speaks to the same truth," Claire said, her tone even. "That you don't hold anything close. Not business, not love. Not family."
For the first time, something flickered in his gaze. Anger. Or pain. She couldn't be sure.
"Family," he repeated softly. "Careful, Miss Sullivan. You're wandering into a minefield."
Claire's pen paused. "Maybe I like minefields."
The silence stretched, heavy. Then Leo's lips curved, not into a smile, but into something sharper, something that warned and invited all at once.
"You're not what I expected," he said.
"And you're exactly what I expected," she replied.
The air shifted. It wasn't just a duel anymore. It was something charged, an undercurrent pulling them both closer despite the barbs.
Leo leaned back in his chair, studying her. "You break men, don't you? That's your reputation."
"Maybe they break themselves," she said. "I just don't stick around to pick up the pieces."
"Then I suppose we have that in common," Leo murmured.
The words landed between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. For one dangerous moment, Claire forgot her questions, forgot her purpose. She saw only the man before her, ruthless, guarded, and somehow wounded.
Then she remembered Danny, her brother, and the debts he owed to men who circled the same world as Leo Westbrook. She remembered why she had fought for this interview.
Her pen moved again.
"Tell me, Mr. Westbrook," she said, her voice steady. "Do you ever lose sleep over the people you've destroyed?"
His expression did not change, but his eyes darkened. "Every empire has bones beneath it. I don't lose sleep. I build higher."
Her chest tightened, though she could not say why.
A soft chime broke the moment. His secretary's voice over the intercom: Five minutes remaining, Mr. Westbrook.
Leo did not look away from her. "So, Miss Sullivan, what will you do with your five minutes? Ask another question? Or admit you're here for more than a story?"
Claire's pulse jumped. She forced her voice steady. "Maybe I'll do both."
And in that single beat, she knew her life had shifted. This man was not just a subject. He was a s
torm. And she was already standing in the rain.