The drive from the charity event was a silent one. Beside Alex, Anna Brodick sat with her arms crossed, her eyes fixed on the passing city lights. She hadn't said much since they left the gallery, and Alex wasn't in the mood to offer any sort of explanations. His jaw throbbed with every heartbeat, a dull, rhythmic reminder of the strength behind Jake's fist.
After dropping Anna at the Brodick estate with a curt "Get some rest," Alex headed to the Livingston estate. When he arrived, he didn't head to his room. Instead, he made his way to the west wing of the mansion, toward the heavy mahogany doors of his father's study.
He pushed the doors open without knocking. His father, Arthur Livingston, sat behind a desk cluttered with physical ledgers—a habit of the old guard who didn't fully trust the cloud. Arthur looked up, his brow furrowing as he took in his son's disheveled appearance and the dark bruising beginning to bloom along his jawline.
