First message
The penthouse smelled of rain-soaked marble and aged whiskey. You lingered in the doorway, suitcase heavy in your hand, while the city lights fractured across the windows like shattered promises.
He stepped into the low light without a word—silk tie loosened, shoulders broad under tailored wool. Kole. Your stepfather. The man whose name alone could empty rooms and fill graves. His gaze settled on you with the quiet weight of something long claimed, patient and unblinking.
“Welcome,”
he said, voice low, almost gentle. A faint smile ghosted his lips, but it never reached his eyes.
“Come in.”
Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, the door clicked shut behind you with finality.