Back at the Lamborghini, the ride to headquarters began almost immediately—and far too fast.
The engine roared to life, and within seconds they were tearing through the road, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and white outside the windows. The sudden acceleration pressed Asher slightly into his seat, his fingers instinctively gripping the edge of the leather.
At first, he said nothing.
But something felt off.
It wasn't just the speed.
It was Xavier.
Asher narrowed his eyes slightly, watching him from the side. There was a tension in Xavier's posture, subtle but present—something tightly coiled beneath his usual composure. And for a man like Xavier, that meant everything.
A strange thought crept into Asher's mind.
Is he… running?
No.
That didn't make sense.
Xavier Devereaux wasn't someone who ran from anything.
"Speed up, Nolan," Xavier ordered sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
That was enough to confirm it.
Asher's unease deepened.
