Wolfe didn't sleep—not like normal people. He rested in hours, not nights, and even in sleep, his mind never quieted. That night, after Evelyn's breakthrough, he sat alone on the edge of his private terrace, watching the city blink beneath him like a vast machine.
She was different. Not just sharp—ruthless in the way he used to be, before comfort dulled his edges.
Inside, a glass of untouched whiskey sat on the table beside the drive Evelyn had recovered. Shaw hadn't acted alone. Wolfe knew that. And if he'd learned one thing in his rise to the top, it was this:
Betrayal always had layers.
Meanwhile, Evelyn didn't sleep either. Her tiny studio apartment looked like a war zone of notes, screenshots, and scribbled timelines. She hadn't been able to stop digging—not after what she'd seen in Shaw's metadata.
One name kept coming up: Rhys Kellan. Wolfe's silent co-founder.
She found no pictures, no press. Just shadows. And Evelyn was beginning to realize Wolfe Global wasn't just a company. It was a front line.
When her phone rang at 2:04 a.m., she didn't hesitate.
"You're awake," Wolfe said.
"Always."
"Good. Get dressed. You're coming with me."
"To where?"
"Boston."
The line went dead.