The rain poured relentlessly over the grey, slate rooftops of London, beating a steady, rhythmic cadence against the arched stained-glass windows of St. Jude's Private Library in Mayfair. Inside, the atmosphere was warm, heavy with the rich scent of polished mahogany, ancient leather-bound volumes, and bitter espresso. Sitting at a secluded corner table near the back stacks was Arthur Sterling, his face pale, lined with stress, and slick with cold sweat as he nervously checked his gold pocket watch every few minutes.Opposite him sat Sterling Vance, a tall, gaunt man in his early sixties with piercing grey eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones, and an impeccably groomed silver beard. Unlike Arthur, who looked like a man running out of options and time, Sterling exuded a cold, calculating stillness that made even his closest legal associates deeply uneasy. He cut his cigar with mechanical precision, his expression detached from the chaotic storm raging outside."You guaranteed me that the Frank
Last Updated : 2026-10-23
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