Madison's apartment was located in a building that commanded respect through design rather than mere history. It was the kind of place where the doorman stood by choice, a silent sentinel of a high-end lifestyle, positioned in a district where the proximity to the city's media and entertainment hubs served as a silent, glittering shorthand for wealth and influence.
To live here was to exist within a specific echelon of professional power.
The doorman acknowledged Mike with a curt, knowing nod, letting him pass without the need for a phone call. The unspoken implication was clear: Madison had already cleared the path.
She had been tracking the clock, monitoring the minutes until his arrival, and had confirmed his presence long before Mike had even reached the threshold. She was already in motion, and he was simply the object she was moving toward.
When the elevator doors slid open, she was there.
