Hours earlier.

Vance’s grip tightened around his phone as the call ended, the screen dimming in his hand. For a moment, he just stood there, jaw set, breath measured. He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in the cool night air.

He had to fix this. That was his job. And he had never failed. He wasn’t about to start now.

He slipped the phone into his pocket and lifted his gaze to the street ahead. The tension had thickened.

What had started as noise was now something sharper, demanding, restless, ready to tip.

"Come out, Saunders! Come out!" The chant rolled through the crowd in waves, louder each time, bouncing off the surrounding houses.

Phone lights flickered like scattered stars, and camera crews pushed forward, reporters speaking rapidly into microphones, their voices cutting through the chaos.

Vance scanned the scene, his eyes moving quickly.

There were too many people, too many cameras, and no clean way in. No clean way out. He couldn’t just walk up to the house and pull them out, not without setting everything off.

He needed a distraction. Something to break the crowd.

His gaze sharpened, and then an idea popped up. It came fast, sharp enough that he didn’t question it.

He turned on his heel and strode back to the waiting car parked a short distance away. The men inside looked up immediately.

"Get them out," Vance said quietly. "Now." A beat. "Or don’t come back."

"Understood, boss," they replied in unison, and the doors opened almost at once.

They stepped out, blending seamlessly into the crowd, their voices rising, bodies merging, becoming part of the chaos rather than standing apart from it.

Vance moved in the opposite direction. He slipped along the edge of the gathering, his shoulders brushing against strangers, his steps measured, controlled. The noise swallowed him easily as he worked his way to the side, positioning himself just far enough to shift attention.

His jaw tightened. Timing. Everything depended on it.

He glanced toward his men, they were already moving into place. Good.

Vance reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, switching on the flashlight. The beam cut through the dimness, thin but sharp.

He raised it slightly, taking a steady breath. Then another, and then he stepped forward.

"Is that—" he began, letting the words hang just enough to draw attention.

A few heads turned. That was all he needed.

"It’s them! They’re getting away!" Vance shouted suddenly, pointing the light toward the far side of the house, away from the real exit.

The crowd hesitated.

Suspicion flickered, but no one moved.

Vance clicked his tongue softly, then surged forward, committing fully. "Look! That’s Leo!" he yelled, his voice cutting through the noise as he broke into a run. "We need to get them, they’re escaping!"

That did it.

Someone nearby picked it up. "Leo is getting away!"

Another voice echoed, then another.

The crowd hesitated. A few turned, but no one moved, not a first.

Then someone ran. And that was enough.

The crowd shifted, then surged, moving in the direction Vance had pointed. Reporters scrambled after them, cameras swinging, lights bouncing wildly as the focus shifted in an instant.

The street thinned. Just enough.

In that brief window, Magnus’s men moved. Quick. Precise. They slipped through the gap, reaching the front door unseen amid the chaos peeling away from the house.

One of them knocked sharply against the window. "Saunders! We need to go! A favor from Mr. Whitehall!"

Silence answered at first. Then, the faint rattle of a lock and the door cracked open.

"We need to move. Now!" the man urged.

No more hesitation.

Leo stepped out first, tension written all over him. His mother followed close behind, her movements quick, anxious. His brother came next, glancing back over his shoulder.

"What are you waiting for, sir?" one of the men pressed, but Mr. Saunders didn’t move.

He stood in the doorway, his shoulders squared, his gaze steady despite the noise still echoing from down the street. "I’m not leaving my house," he said, his voice firm, unyielding. "Don’t argue. Get my family out of here."

He looked into the street. "They’ll be back soon."

Mrs. Saunders’s eyes widened, her breath catching as she stared at her husband. "What? Let’s go, Jack, what are you doing?" she asked, stopping short.

But Mr. Saunders didn’t answer. He turned without a word and stepped back inside, pulling the door shut behind him. The lock clicked, loud and final. He pressed his back against the wood, his chest rising and falling as if he could hold the entire world out with his body alone.

"Jack!" she started, taking a step forward.

Then the sound hit. The crowd. They were coming back, louder now. Closer. Footsteps pounding against the pavement. Voices rising, chaotic, surging back toward the house.

"We need to go! Now!" one of the men barked, urgency snapping through the air.

"Mom, come on!" Leo shouted, reaching for her, his hand outstretched.

Mrs. Saunders hesitated, her gaze flicking between the closed door and the street beyond. Every instinct pulled her back toward her husband, but the noise was closing in fast. Too fast.

She swallowed hard, and then she moved. Without another word, she grabbed Leo’s hand and rushed to the car, climbing in as the door slammed behind her.

The engine roared, too loud, too sudden.

Mrs. Saunders flinched as the car jerked forward, and then they were gone, just as the crowd came flooding back into view, breathless, disoriented.

"They’re still inside!" someone yelled, pointing at the house as lights flicked on behind the windows.

By the time the street settled, they were already gone.

—

Roman’s door flew open.

He stepped into the hallway, his mind already racing ahead of him. Something had gone wrong, badly wrong, and he needed to know how.

How had everything he exposed the night before unraveled so quickly? How were they trying to turn it against him?

His jaw tightened as he moved toward the elevator, his footsteps quick, sharp against the polished floor. Then he saw him.

At the far end of the hallway, a man stood by the window, staring out into the morning light. Still. Quiet. Out of place.

Roman slowed. He took two more steps toward the elevator, and then he stopped.

His thoughts shifted. What if? What if this wasn’t random? What if this man knew something? What if he were the man hired by Magnus to ruin his plans?

Roman turned, changing direction. "Hello?" he called, his voice cutting through the silence as he approached. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

His heart thudded harder with each step.

The man turned. A calm, almost cheerful expression settled on his face as he met Roman’s gaze, as if he had been expecting this.

He lifted his hand in greeting. "My name is—"

"Is there a problem here?" Vance’s voice cut in smoothly, slicing through the moment.

Roman’s head snapped slightly as Vance stepped forward, composed as ever.

"Mr. Whitehall will see you now," Vance said, his gaze shifting briefly to the man.

The man nodded, lowering his hand, then glanced once at Roman before stepping away without another word.

Roman frowned, suspicion tightening his features. "Who is that?" he asked, his eyes still following the man’s retreating figure.

Vance smiled. "I’m sure we can both agree," he said lightly, "that you have more pressing problems than his identity."

There was no warmth in the smile, only calculation. He turned to leave, but Roman moved faster. His hand shot out, gripping Vance’s arm, stopping him mid-step.

"You were there last night," Roman said. Not a question.

For a fraction of a second, Vance’s composure cracked. It was subtle, almost nothing. But Roman saw it. And that was enough.

The confirmation settled in his chest, sharp and certain. You were there.

Roman released him and turned away, already piecing things together. He had what he needed. For now.