BARRON
The office didn’t looklike power anymore.
It looked like war.
The carpet was shredded like old flesh. The walnut shelf split down the middle like a cracked ribcage. This wasn’t an office anymore. It was a crime scene that hadn’t decided who was the victim. Two chairs were overturned, one missing a leg entirely. The coffee table had gone sideways, reports scattered across the floor like bloodstains. The glass on the sideboard cabinet was cracked—spiderwebbed out from where someone threw a file like a weapon. The blinds hung half-drawn. The air reeked of paper, ink, and intrusion.
The Bureau had torn the room apart. And I hadn’t put it back together. I stood at the window. Shirt unbuttoned halfway, no tie, sleeves rolled.
A glass of eighteen-year-old Scotch in my right hand. Not my first pour. Wouldn’t be my last. Behind me, the Lawlor empire lay in fucking pieces.
My reflection stared back from the glass—older than I remembered. Lines etched deeper. Collarbone visible beneath the linen. Hair not quite right. I looked like a man fraying at the edges. I was.
They took the files. The backups. The offshore records.
But worse?
They took the illusion. The one that told me this place—this name—was untouchable.
I lifted the Scotch. Tasted nothing. Didn’t care. The silence pressed against me. A scream with no air.
Then—
the elevator dinged.
I didn’t turn. Didn’t have to. I felt her before she stepped out. The shift. The chill. The silence holding its breath.
Selene.
She walked in like it wasn’t a graveyard. Trench coat belted tight. Heels clicking across the marble. Lipstick perfect. Hair sculpted into armor. Perfume sharp enough to wound.
She didn’t rush. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t act like she’d ever been thrown out of this room.
I stayed still. Facing the window.
“I always hated that painting,” she said behind me. Light. Casual.
Like she hadn’t gutted me.
I didn’t answer. She took a few more steps. Stopped at the desk.
“It’s impressive what the Bureau can do when they think they’ve cornered a legacy.”
Still, I said nothing.
She perched on the edge of my desk. Crossed her legs. The coat parted. Black lace glinted underneath. A performance.
“You look tired,” she said next.
My voice cracked when it came out, raw around the edges.
“Get to it.”
Her smile curled. Like a blade finding skin. Like she tasted blood already.
“I can make it go away.”
I turned then. Slowly. Just my head. She looked untouched. Unbothered. Like she hadn’t fucked her way through the men trying to steal the Lawlor name.
