MasukRain struck the glass walls of the tower like impatient fingers.
London stretched below them—grey water, grey sky, grey buildings stacked like secrets—but inside the twenty-first-floor hallway, the air had turned heavy.
Marcus Halberg didn’t look like a man cornered.
For a moment, no one spoke.The name on Julian’s phone sat between them like a loaded weapon.Daniel Kessler.Ivy felt the world tilt slightly.Daniel had been with Blackwood Global for over a decade. He was the quiet financial genius who stabilized the company after Julian’s early expansion disasters.He attended every board meeting.Every charity gala.Every holiday dinner.He was practically family.Sebastian stared at the screen longer than Ivy expected.Then he said one word.“No.”Marcus raised an eyebrow.“Denial is healthy. For about five minutes.”Sebastian looked up slowly, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.“Daniel Kessler helped build this company.”Marcus shrugged.“That’s usually how betrayal works.”Ivy’s thoughts raced.“But if Daniel sent the message,” she said, “why lure Julian to the vineyard?”Marcus slid Julian’s phone back into his coat.“That depends on what Daniel wanted.”Sebastian’s voice hardened.“Control.”Marcus gave a small approving nod.“Y
Rain struck the glass walls of the tower like impatient fingers.London stretched below them—grey water, grey sky, grey buildings stacked like secrets—but inside the twenty-first-floor hallway, the air had turned heavy.Marcus Halberg didn’t look like a man cornered.That bothered Ivy more than anything.Sebastian stood between Marcus and the elevator, tall enough to block the entire hallway if he chose. His shoulders were loose, but Ivy knew that posture.It meant he was seconds away from violence.Marcus noticed it too.
The jet took off at 2:40 a.m.Ivy didn’t sleep.She sat by the oval window of the Blackwood private jet, watching Los Angeles disappear beneath the clouds while the quiet hum of the engines filled the cabin.Across from her, Sebastian Blackwood sat with his long legs stretched out, reading something on his tablet like they were flying to a routine business meeting.Not chasing a man who might know who murdered his brother.Not running toward a truth that could destroy both of them.Ivy hated how calm he looked.“You planned this,” she said.Sebastian didn’t look up.“Planned what?”“You already knew Marcus was in London before we spoke last night.”He finally raised his eyes.“Yes.”“And you didn’t tell me.”“You would’ve gone anyway.”“That’s not the point.”“No,” Sebastian replied quietly.“It’s exactly the point.”Ivy leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms.“You don’t trust me.”Sebastian gave a small humorless smile.“I trust you exactly as much as you trust me.”Which meant—
The first mistake people made when they thought a murder was solved too quickly… was believing the silence afterward meant safety.Sometimes silence meant someone was waiting.Ivy didn’t sleep that night.The city outside her bedroom window glittered with the indifferent calm of Los Angeles after midnight, but inside the Blackwood mansion the air felt heavy.Like something had shifted.Detective Cruz reopening the investigation had changed the rules of the game.But what Sebastian had said before leaving lingered in her mind far more dangerously.Someone knew where we were.Someone had known about the vineyard.About the Aston Martin.About them.Ivy sat at the small desk in her bedroom, scrolling through a list of names on her tablet.Every man who attended the hunting party.Twenty guests.Twenty potential witnesses.Twenty potential enemies.Most were investors.A few were politicians.Two were old friends of Julian’s from before Blackwood Global became an empire.But one name caug
Detective Elena Cruz didn’t rush.People who rushed usually wanted something.Cruz preferred to let people wonder what she already knew.The lobby of Blackwood Tower gleamed with the sterile perfection of billionaire ambition—white marble floors, chrome fixtures, quiet security guards pretending not to watch everyone who walked through the doors.She paused just inside the entrance and looked up.Forty-two floors.A monument to power.Also, she suspected, a monument to secrets.
The problem with war was that it rarely announced itself with explosions.Most of the time, it arrived quietly.Like a text message.Ivy was halfway through her second cup of coffee when her phone buzzed against the marble kitchen counter.She had slept exactly two hours.Sebastian’s kiss still burned on her mouth like a bruise she couldn’t see but couldn’t stop touching either. The memory of it had followed her all night—violent, reckless, unforgivable.She hated that her body remembered it so vividly.







