The invitation sat on my new mahogany desk like a slow-burning ember—deceptively still, but capable of setting everything on fire.
I hadn't touched it for ten minutes.
Didn't need to.
I could feel its weight from across the room.
Thick cream cardstock. Sharp edges. The Vane crest embossed in gold so deeply it almost looked carved instead of printed. Power pressed into paper.
A warning disguised as elegance.
"A private dinner to discuss the restructuring of the Silver Star project. 8:00 PM. The Obsidian Suite. Dress to kill… or be killed. — J.V."
"She's baiting us, Reid."
My voice sounded smaller than I intended, swallowed by the vast openness of the DUMBO office.
The city outside looked like it was grieving.
The Manhattan Bridge was wrapped in a curtain of grey mist, its steel cables disappearing into nothingness. Even the lights below seemed dimmer tonight—flickering, uncertain, like they were waiting for something to collapse.
Reid didn't answer immediately.
