The soft knock on my office door came just as the rainlight filtered in—dim and gray, slicing across the grain of my mahogany desk like old scars.
I already knew who it was before the door creaked open.
"Wow," came a familiar voice, followed by the sound of leather shoes against hardwood. "Look who finally remembered he has an office."
I didn't even glance up. "You act like I haven't been working."
"You haven't shown up," Len cut in, dragging out the words like a scolding older brother. "Three months, Claude. Three months of board meetings and firestorms while our golden boy stayed in hiding."
"I wasn't hiding," I said flatly, flipping through the morning's report on Jean's upcoming artist lineup.
