THE BROKEN SWAN (BWWM)

At thirty-two, Andrew Linton had done a lot of things—both brave and cowardly—but he hadn't done anything of this sort. Declan Partridge was no ordinary man; at thirty-six, he commanded more than two thousand workers in more than ten countries as the chairman and CEO of Pattron Groups. He was formidable. And delivering the message Andrew had would probably be deadly, maybe not to himself but certainly to Lennon Patterson Jr.

Declan wasn't an unfair man; he wasn't innocuous either. Just the thought was enough to send a chilly sensation down his spine. He stopped short in front of the double mahogany door—the devil's lair—his subconscious whispered. Andrew could picture Declan's intense sapphire eyes darkening, the strong set of his chin ticking and Andrew drew back, ready to make a clean break through the carpeted lobby when his name came quietly through the closed doors.

One gulp. Another. He raised his hand to knock when the almost tender “come in” filtered through the door. Palm sweaty, heart racing, Andrew pushed open the door.

Dark paneled walls and polished mahogany, shadows crawling along the grains, the reflection of light like liquid.

The walls gleamed with a polished patience, swallowing the weak afternoon light and throwing the room into uneven shadows. The desk loomed like a single block of authority, its edges sharp, leather chair poised as if it could decide a man’s fate.

A faint scent of cedar and old books lingered, pressing against Andrew’s chest with every cautious step. Even the silence had weight here; the faint tick of a clock sounded like a hammer on his nerves. Somewhere in the shadows, the blinds trembled as if holding back the city’s chaos—as if the room itself was waiting, patient and watchful, for him to speak.

Declan Patridge stood far away in front of his unlit fireplace with his back to Andrew, his hand buried deeply in his pockets, sleeves rolled past his elbow—the epitome of a man winding down after another busy day, but still, Andrew gulped—the sound loud enough to grab Declan's full attention.

“What brings you back here?” His somber voice landed like a blade in the haunting echoes of the office.

The strains of Swan Lake bled softly through the office, all strings and sorrow, echoing against the tall windows like a memory that refused to die. The melody was too haunting for daylight, too beautiful to be casual—but he stood there quietly and Andrew wondered if he even heard the sound at all.

To him, it was winding down after another day of conquering the stock exchange market. To Andrew, it always sounded like grief dressed in silk.

“I received a shocking alert that I can't wait till tomorrow.”

The sun from the open window had turned to a pretty orange hue, casting textured shadows on the corners of the room and over Declan's hard jaw.

“Leilani Amara Vaughn has been paroled.” Andrew rushed out the sentence in one breath, seeing no reason to delay the inevitable. “She gets out on Friday."

Andrew watched Declan closely—the way his fist strained against his trousers pockets, and how his entire body went rigid. Normal eyes who hadn't worked for Declan for over seven years would never have noted the changes, but Andrew did, and his palms grew sweaty again.

Dusk fell. The office sat as small and terrible as a held breath. Andrew watched the faint glint of teeth in the dim—an almost-carnivorous smile, patient and hungry.

“I suppose it’s up to me to see that she’s properly wasted,” Declan said finally, each word slow and certain as a verdict.