The morning sun over the city was a blinding, intrusive glare that offered no warmth to the man stepping out of the obsidian-colored sedan.
It was 7:00 AM, and the lobby of the Ispire building was already buzzing with the quiet, efficient energy of the elite. But as Theron passed through, the atmosphere curdled. The security team at the front desk immediately looked at their shoes. He was usually a picture of stoic, professional calm.
Today, he looked like a thunderstorm in a charcoal suit.
His jaw was set so tight it looked carved from granite, and there was a dark, restless energy rolling off him in waves, an invisible pressure that made the air in the lobby feel heavy and ionized. He hadn't slept. He had spent the entire night in his penthouse, a mere hallway away from a witch who knew exactly which of his psychological buttons to press.
