ADRIAN'S POV
The penthouse of the Heller-Vance building was a cathedral of glass, suspended over the rain-blurred spires of London. It was the kind of room designed to make men feel like gods, or at least like the bankers who financed them.
Sir Alistair Vance, the Director of the Board's primary liquid treasury, stood by the window. He was a man composed of starched linen, old money, and the kind of arrogance that only comes from thinking you are too big to fail. When he turned to face us, his expression was a mix of irritation and confusion.
"Blackwood," Alistair said, his voice a dry rasp. "You have a remarkable talent for showing up where you aren't wanted. And at this hour? Your access card is a legacy tier; it shouldn't even be active."
"The thing about legacies, Alistair, is that they tend to haunt the people who try to bury them," I said, stepping further into the room.
