Alexander Pov

Show me your hands.

The order was flat, devoid of emotion, the kind of tone I used when a junior portfolio manager had risked millions on a reckless gamble. I watched Emilia, trapped between the marble desk and my presence, her face pale, eyes wide and swimming with unshed tears. The hand she had pressed to her chest, the spot where the cheap phone was hidden, was still fixed there, a stark admission of guilt.

“Alexander, please,” she choked out, her voice thin. “It’s ...