Dawn light hits the seventieth floor like a sharpened blade. It glints off the mahogany conference table, turning the polished surface into a dark mirror. Ines Calloway stands at the glass, her reflection a ghost against the sprawling silhouette of the city. Five years ago, she left the Ashridge territory with blood on her shoes and nothing in her pockets. Today, she owns the skyline that looks down on their borders. Her charcoal suit is a suit of armour. Her amber eyes are cold.
Marek Stoll enters with a silent, predatory grace. He places a single leather-bound folder on the table. He does not speak; he knows the weight of this silence. Under his tailored blazer, the subtle shift of a wolf’s shoulders betrays his lineage. He is her beta in the boardroom, the only one who knows the corporate trap is actually a hunting ground. Let them come. The acquisition papers are already signed on her end. All that remains is the prey.
A low hum vibrates through the floorboards as the executive lift engages. Ines keeps her back to the room, her hand tightening on the cold glass of the window. The scent of rain and cedar—the smell of the Ashridge woods—seems to seep through the vents. Her heart does not stutter. She is the predator now. The private elevator chimes, its brass doors beginning to slide open.
