"Boss, we're being exposed," the secretary's voice cracked, sounding small against the vast glass walls. "The media... they're starting to track how we moved into that neighborhood. The Thorne name is dropping in the polls, and the board is panicking. We need a cover-up before the records go public."
Alexander Thorne didn't turn around. He watched a single raindrop trail down the glass, a tiny fracture in his perfect view.
"Records don't burn as easily as they used to," the secretary whispered, almost to himself. "We have to show the media these are lies, or we lose everything."
The sharp, rhythmic vibration of a phone on the mahogany desk broke the trance. Alexander let it hum for a moment—a mechanical heartbeat—before picking it up.
"Hello, Mr. Thorne," a voice hissed, dripping with the kind of entitlement that only comes from old money and dark secrets. "Thirty million dollars, Alexander. That was the price for the New York skyline, yet the Sterling Group still has their flag planted on my soil. You said you'd end him. You said you had the signatures. If I don't see those buildings in three days, I'm going to make this very, very dirty."
The line went dead. Alexander stared at the screen, his reflection ghost-like against the black glass.
"The audio leaked, sir," the secretary said, his voice barely a breath. "The workers... the injuries at the site... it's everywhere. We've dropped three percent in the last hour. We're bleeding."
Alexander finally moved. It wasn't the frantic movement of a man in trouble, but the slow, deliberate shift of a predator. He rolled his sleeves past his elbows, revealing forearms that were a map of tension—thick veins tracing over hard, functional muscle. He was twenty-nine, but in this light, with his jaw set like granite and his dark, wolf-like eyes devoid of warmth, he looked like a man who had already lived a hundred lives.
"Go," he said. The word was low, a vibration in his chest that commanded the room.
When the door clicked shut, the silence felt heavier. Alexander stood tall, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of a suit that cost more than most people made in a year. He walked to the curtains and yanked them shut, casting the room into a moody, artificial twilight. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around his sharp, handsome features as he turned to his glass strategy board.
There it was. The Sterling Group. He picked up a red pen, his fingers steady despite the chaos. With one slow, jagged stroke, he crossed them out. It wasn't just business anymore; it was a burial.
He crushed the cigarette out against the table with two lean fingers, ignoring the sting of the heat. He needed to disappear. He stripped out of the suit—the armor of a liar—and pulled on an oversized tea-colored shirt and baggy pants. The change was jarring. Without the structured wool of the suit, the raw power of his physique was even more evident—the heavy swell of his chest against the thin fabric, the corded muscle of his neck, and his dark, wavy hair spilling out from under a low-tucked cap.
He slipped out the back, a shadow in his own building, and slid into the driver's seat of his black mirrored car. He didn't wait for the valet. He hit the gas, the engine's roar the only thing loud enough to drown out his thoughts.
1:00 AM.
The club was a blur of neon heat and pulsing bass. Alexander sat at the bar, the cap gone, his face exposed to the flickering red and blue lights. He looked breathtaking and wrecked all at once.
"Another," he rasped, sliding the glass forward.
"Sir, that's thirteen," the bartender said, wiping a glass nervously. "I can't. It's too much."
Alexander looked up. His eyes were bloodshot but intense, a piercing stare that made the bartender's breath hitch.
"You're lucky," Alexander murmured, a dark, jagged laugh escaping him. "I'm usually the one doing the dirty work. But tonight? Tonight I'm just stuck in the middle of a landslide." He shook his head, a stray lock of hair falling over his brow. "I don't talk to people. Why am I talking to you?"
He looked down at his hands—the hands that signed the papers and crossed out the names. A bitter, arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"But you know what, kid?" he leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate silk. "Even at my absolute worst... even when the world is screaming for my head... I still have a billion dollars in my pocket. And that makes me better than any man in this room."