Chapter Fifty Three: The Tower

The Van Alston building rose from downtown Manhattan like a glass and steel monument to absolute power.

Sixty stories of gleaming silver that caught the morning sun and threw it back at the world in blinding sheets of light. I had to crane my neck just to see the top, where the Van Alston name was etched in letters large enough to be read from space.

"Jesus," I breathed, my hand pressed against the car window as we approached.

Dominic's building—the one I'd thought was impressive—looked like a child's toy beside this towering giant. This wasn't just a headquarters. This was a declaration of war against gravity itself, a middle finger raised to every other building in the city that dared to compete for skyline space.

"Second-tallest building in Manhattan," Dominic said quietly. "Victoria had it built in the eighties when everyone said a woman couldn't command that kind of architectural ego."

"She proved them wrong."

"She destroyed them. Three of the men who voted against her building permits went bankrupt within two years."

The car pulled into a circular drive that could have accommodated a small army. Uniformed attendants appeared as if summoned by magic, opening doors, taking coats, moving with the kind of practiced efficiency that spoke of decades serving people who could buy and sell countries.

I stepped out onto marble that gleamed like fresh snow, polished to such perfection I could see my reflection staring back up at me. Water fountains danced in precise geometric patterns, their spray catching the light and throwing rainbows across the white stone.

The lobby hit me like a physical blow.

Thirty-foot ceilings soared overhead, supported by columns of black marble veined with gold. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung suspended like frozen starbursts, casting prismatic light across every surface. The floors were inlaid with patterns that probably cost more than most people's houses—intricate geometric designs in rare stones that looked like they'd been stolen from Renaissance palaces.

Everything whispered money. Old money. The kind of wealth that had been accumulating interest for generations, growing fat and lazy and absolutely untouchable.

"Ma'am," a voice said behind me, and I turned to see a woman in her fifties wearing a suit that probably cost more than my car. "I'm Margaret Williams, executive assistant to the board. They're waiting for you on the sixtieth floor."

The sixtieth floor. Of course. Because anything less than the absolute top would be an insult to the Van Alston legacy.

The elevator was big enough to park a truck in, with shiny brass walls that showed our reflections like funhouse mirrors. Jules stepped in behind us and immediately started shaking her head.

"This is just stupid," she said, running her hand along the wall. "Who the hell needs an elevator this size? What do they do, move elephants up here?"

I couldn't help smiling despite my nerves. "It's supposed to impress people."

"Oh, it's impressive. Impressively dumb." Jules hit the button for the sixtieth floor and rolled her eyes. "Sixty floors of what? I bet half these floors are empty rooms full of fancy chairs nobody sits in."

The numbers kept climbing—10, 20, 30. Each floor probably had more money flowing through it than most people saw in their entire lives.

"You look like you're gonna puke," Jules said, watching me grip the handrail.

"I might."

"Well, don't do it in here. This elevator probably costs more than my apartment, and I don't want to explain vomit stains to the cleaning crew."

By floor 40, my hands were shaking.

By floor 50, breathing felt impossible.

"Listen," Jules said, moving closer. "Remember what Dominic drilled into your head. Walk like you own everything in sight."

"What if I mess up?"

"Then pretend you didn't. I've watched you handle Blake when he was losing his mind and Delilah when she had a gun. Some crusty old guys in expensive suits should be easy."

At 60, the doors opened onto a reception area that looked like it had been designed by gods with unlimited budgets.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the entire city spread out below like a conquered territory. Central Park looked like a green postage stamp. The Hudson River curved like a silver ribbon. Other skyscrapers—buildings I'd thought were impressive—looked like toys scattered by a giant child.

"This is what I'm inheriting," I whispered, more to myself than to Dominic.

"No," he said, his hand settling on the small of my back with warm possession. "This is what you already own. You just haven't claimed it yet."

The distinction hit me like lightning. This wasn't something being given to me. This was mine by right, by blood, by the accident of birth that had been hidden from me for twenty-six years.

Every marble column, every crystal chandelier, every square foot of Manhattan real estate visible from these windows—it all belonged to me.

The woman in possession of this empire wouldn't be intimidated by a room full of suits, no matter how expensive their lawyers or how sharp their teeth.

She would walk in there like she owned the place.

Because she did.

"Ready?" Dominic asked, his voice low and intimate despite the grandeur surrounding us.

I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, and felt the power of sixty floors of absolute authority settling into my bones like armor.

"Let's go claim my empire," I said.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, I meant it.