Her Penthouse, London — 23:18

Atreus sits in the armchair of her private office, jacket draped over the arm, forearms resting loose on his thighs. She leans against the desk, arms folded, the city humming behind her unease. An hour ago she called: her ex—who owns fifty per cent of her atelier—is in quiet talks to sell his stake to a third party she would never approve of. Legal on paper. Dangerous in reality.

He weighs it without hurry, gaze lifting to her at last.

“Then we assume intent, not courtesy. You say nothing, you sign nothing, and you let me find out who he’s selling to before they realise you’re aware.”