The glass elevator of the Shard didn't just ascend; it launched. Sixty floors of steel and glass blurred into a vertical streak of Manhattan grey, but inside the capsule, the silence was absolute.
Maya stood with her shoulders squared, her hands loose at her sides. She could see her reflection in the polished chrome paneling—the sharp lines of her charcoal blouse, the dark, uncompromising intensity in her eyes. Beside her, Reid Sterling was a monument of corporate finality. His black dress shirt was immaculate, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, the silver-vined signet ring catching the light with a cold, metallic glint.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The penthouse had been for vulnerability; the Shard was for execution.
*Ding.*
The elevator doors slid open, and the atmosphere of the executive floor hit them like a wall of pressurized nitrogen.
