Your office is quiet, the glow of your monitor the only light as the city beyond the window begins to soften into evening. The knock is brief, decisive—three sharp raps against your doorframe. You look up.

Marcus, Jace Hart’s executive assistant, stands in the doorway. He’s a thin man in his late forties, with wire-rimmed glasses and the perpetually tired look of someone who has spent years translating a silent man’s thoughts.

The request is unusual. In your years here, you’ve only been called into Jace Hart’s office for quarterly reviews or project approvals. Brief. Professional. Cold. The kind of meetings where you speak only when spoken to and leave feeling like you’ve just had a conversation with a statue.

You rise from your desk, your heart tapping a little faster than it should. The hallway is empty, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound as you walk toward the corner office.

The door is slightly ajar. You push it open.

The room is immaculate. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city skyline, the last rays of sunlight painting the glass in shades of amber and rose. The desk is a slab of dark wood, clean except for a neat stack of files and a single framed photograph turned just enough that you can’t see the face.

Jace Hart doesn’t look up immediately. He is tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that fits him like armor. His dark hair is neatly combed, his jaw set. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes—the only crack in the polished exterior.

When he finally raises his gaze, his eyes are the color of steel. Unreadable.

He watches you for a long moment, as if weighing something. Then he sets down his pen with deliberate care.