No preamble. No small talk. No offer of tea or refreshments or the polite verbal fencing that people in power used to establish hierarchy before getting to the point. She went straight for the jugular with the same serene expression she probably wore when signing budgets.
I let the silence stretch for three heartbeats. Four. Five.
Nel. Anything I should know?
She's alone. No active surveillance feeds on this level. The building's security system shows a maintenance lockout on all cameras and recording devices for this floor, authorized by the President's personal override code forty-seven minutes ago.
She'd killed the cameras. She'd emptied the floor. She'd arranged a private meeting at the highest point in the entire country, a location where no one could eavesdrop and no recording could exist, and her first question was about a man who'd been erased from history eighteen years ago.
Seraphina Vance didn't want a conversation.
She wanted a confession.
