Damian's POV
The week was nearing its close, and Manhattan stretched beneath my office like a living, breathing engine—gears turning, lights flickering, momentum building toward the familiar crescendo of a Friday night. From my vantage point on the fiftieth floor, the city always appeared ordered, almost serene, as though the chaos belonged to another world, one far below me. But tonight, even the skyline seemed to pulse with the same quiet intensity that had been coiling inside my chest all day.
The Sterling issue, the last major obstacle of the week, had finally died the death it deserved.
I scrolled through the finalized contract on my tablet, watching Sterling's trembling digital signature at the bottom of the page. Finch had executed my instructions with his usual sharp-edged precision—no patience for negotiation, no tolerance for ego, no consideration for anything except my terms, as written, as delivered, as non-negotiable.
Sterling didn't even try to argue.
