The air on the fifty-first floor of the Sterling Tower didn't smell like a normal office. There was no scent of burnt coffee or cheap toner. It smelled of expensive cedarwood, ozone, and the cold, metallic tang of absolute power.
Maya Vance smoothed her charcoal blazer, her heart drumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She was "The Scalpel," the woman who had dismantled three Fortune 500 companies by finding the decimals that didn't add up. But as the mahogany elevator doors slid open with a whisper, she felt less like a surgeon and more like a sacrifice.
The reception area was a cathedral of glass and shadow. Behind a desk carved from a single slab of black marble sat a woman whose smile was as sharp and synthetic as a diamond.
"Ms. Vance. Mr. Sterling is expecting you. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Maya didn't reply. She couldn't. Her eyes were fixed on the man at the end of the hall. Alexander Sterling wasn't looking at the Manhattan skyline. He was standing in front of a massive, ancient map of the city that hung on the wall—one from the 1800s, covered in strange, hand-drawn red ink markings that didn't match any modern grid.
From the back, he looked like a statue. Broad shoulders draped in a suit that cost more than Maya's college tuition, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't move, yet the air around him seemed to hum with a frantic, nervous energy.
"You're four minutes late," he said. He didn't turn around. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that felt like a vibration in Maya's own chest.
"The security check at the lobby took longer than expected," Maya said, her voice steadier than she felt. "They checked my bag three times."
"Only three?" Alexander finally turned. His face was a masterpiece of sharp angles and cold indifference, but his eyes—a piercing, storm-cloud grey—looked as though they hadn't seen sleep in a week. He wasn't just tired; he looked haunted. "My security team is getting lazy. I'll have to remind them that a woman with your reputation can do more damage with a laptop than a mercenary can with a rifle."
He walked toward her, his stride slow and predatory. He stopped just inches away, invading her personal space. He didn't look at her face; he looked at the pulse jumping in her neck.
"Why are you really here, Maya?" he whispered. The question was a trap.
"You hired me to audit the merger," she reminded him, her breath hitching.
Alexander reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch from the gold locket at her throat, but he didn't touch it. Instead, he pulled a small, silver coin from his pocket and rolled it across his knuckles with a practiced, hypnotic speed.
"I hired you because you're the only person I could find who isn't on my mother's payroll," he said, his voice dropping so low it was barely audible. "This building is full of eyes. Some are in the walls. Some are behind the desks. Do not trust the digital files I give you. They are a lie."
He dropped a heavy, leather-bound folder onto the marble desk. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
"This is the preliminary data," he said, his mask of cold arrogance clicking back into place. "My board wants a clean bill of health. I want you to find the ghosts. But let's be clear about one thing."
He leaned down, his sandalwood-and-rain scent clouding her senses.
"If you find something that terrifies you... come to me. Do not call the police. Do not call your firm. In this office, the truth doesn't set you free. It gets you buried."
He turned back to his ancient map, dismissing her before she could ask a single question. As Maya picked up the folder, she noticed a smudge of something dark on the corner of the leather. It looked like ink. But as she rubbed it between her fingers, she realized the truth.
It was dried blood.