The glass walls of the Vance Couture boardroom reflected a skyline washed in pale morning light, the kind that made the city look almost merciful—until you saw the faces inside. Every seat around the obsidian table was filled: executives in tailored suits, legal counsel flipping through files, and at the head, Victoria Kane, composed as ever, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.

Damian stood beside me, posture carved from stone. To everyone else, he looked perfectly controlled, but I’d ...