The sixteenth floor of the Shard had always been one of the coldest places in the empire.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
It was a kingdom of fluorescent lights, gray cubicles, and sleepless calculations—a sterile machine where billions of dollars moved silently across screens while exhausted analysts consumed caffeine like oxygen. The air usually smelled faintly of printer ink, expensive cologne, and stress-induced despair.
No one laughed on sixteen.
People survived there.
But when the private elevator doors slid open for Reid and Maya Sterling that Thursday afternoon, the entire floor felt unrecognizable.
Warmth drifted through the hallway in soft waves.
