The chime of the private elevator felt like a gunshot in the silent boardroom.
Reid didn't let go of me, but his posture changed. He went from a man in love to a man in a combat stance—shoulders squared, jaw set, silver eyes narrowed into lethal slits. I could feel the heat radiating off him, a protective barrier that felt more like a cage than a shield.
The doors hissed open.
Julian stepped out. He didn't look like the broken boy I'd left in the Atlas Mountains. He was wearing a rugged, dark work jacket, his boots still dusted with the gray grit of construction debris. His face was leaner, harder, and his eyes—usually so warm and full of "Queens" nostalgia—were cold.
He was holding a small, fire-blackened safe.
"You have a lot of nerve coming here, Vance," Reid said, his voice a low, predatory growl that vibrated through my own chest. "The security team is ten seconds away from throwing you off this roof. Give me one reason why I shouldn't let them."
