The monitors in the Sterling-Gable penthouse flickered with the rhythmic, grainy blue of the harbor security feed.
I stood in front of them, a glass of untouched whiskey in my hand, watching the ghost of the man I used to love. On screen, Reid was a smudge of thermal heat against the deep, freezing black of the East River. It was 3:00 AM. The storm had graduated from a gale to a full-blown nor'easter.
He was working on the secondary pylon—the one I had flagged as "High Priority" despite the weather warnings. I had told myself it was about the timeline. I had told myself the Sovereign doesn't wait for the clouds to clear.
But as I watched him haul a heavy crate of rivets up a swaying ladder, I knew the truth. I wanted to see him break. I wanted the "Ice King" to beg for a warm room and a soft bed so I could have the satisfaction of saying no.
