I sit in the glass-walled conference room of Vanguard Protective Services, studying the woman who will either keep me alive or destroy what remains of my carefully managed life.Her name is Vesper Knight. The file on the tablet before me lists seven years of private military contracts, two black-ops extractions, and a reputation for never losing a principal.She remains standing, arms folded across her chest, her posture so rigid she could have been carved from the same black stone as the building. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a charcoal suit that fits her like a second skin, she exudes an intimidating authority. Her blonde hair is pulled back so tightly that the skin around her temples stretches. Her eyes are the precise gray of a winter sea moments before a storm.“Miss Ashcroft,” she begins, her voice clipped and authoritative. “You've received three letters in the past month. Each described the exact layout of your bedroom, the brand of sheets you prefer, and the time yo
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