Mason had trusted Ethan with his life.

That was the cruelest part of it.

They sat across from each other in a private lounge on the top floor of an old hotel overlooking the city—neutral ground, away from boardrooms and cameras. The room smelled faintly of leather and expensive whiskey. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, glowing like a battlefield of glass and steel.

Mason leaned back in his chair, relaxed. Too relaxed.

“So,” he said, lifting his glass. “I heard you’ve been busy burning bridges lately.”

Ethan didn’t touch his drink. His hands were clasped together on the table, knuckles pale, jaw locked. He looked thinner than before, darker around...