The floor-to-ceiling glass of the penthouse transforms the Manhattan skyline into a gilded cage. Roman Vale stands against the morning light, his navy Savile Row suit perfectly pressed, his silver hair catching the sun. He looks less like a father and more like a man presiding over a merger he has already won.
"I’ve made a decision for your safety, Aria," Roman says, his voice as smooth as the Patek Philippe on his wrist. He doesn't look at her; he looks at the street sixty stories below where a black SUV idles at the curb. He tells her about the stalker—the man with the long lens at the Lincoln Center gala who photographed her wrists instead of her face. He tells her about Cole Reyes. On the entryway chair, a blue cashmere scarf is draped carelessly over her hand-bound notebook, hiding the copied SEC file tucked into its lining.
"You don't need to hire anyone," Aria says, her posture ballet-straight despite the tremor she refuses to show. He can’t be here. Not now. The file in her bag feels like a lead weight. Roman begins to dismiss her protest with a practiced smile, but he doesn't finish. A heavy knock starts at the penthouse door, cutting off Roman's sentence.
