The city morning bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Kingsley corporate tower, turning the glass into sheets of molten gold. Adrian sat behind Theo's mahogany desk, a hand drumming lightly against a folder marked (Confidential–Internal Audit), though his attention was miles away from the spreadsheets spread before him.
Sleep had been elusive in the estate. The space across the hall had felt too still, too cold without Yu's quiet breathing. He'd told himself it was necessary—that Theo's "illness", Gregory's suspicion, and the fragile balance they maintained all depended on this distance—but logic had done little to soothe the restless anger that simmered under his composure.
Gregory Kingsley.
The old man's name alone soured Adrian's mood. He could still see Yu's tear-streaked face from last night, the tremor in his voice as he'd recounted what Gregory had said, what he'd done. The image haunted him more than he wanted to admit.
