The room smelled of old money and expensive mistakes—leather polished to a dull shine, whiskey breathing quietly in crystal, the faint ozone hum of servers hidden behind paneled walls. Maya stood just inside the threshold, coat still on, fingers tight around the strap of her bag as if it were the last honest thing she owned.

He watched her from behind the desk without rising.

“Ms. Vale,” he said, voice smooth, practiced. “You came alone.”

Maya smiled. It was the kind of smile that showed nothing and promised worse. “You asked for discretion.”

“I asked for proof,” he corrected. “Of your seriousness.”

She closed the door behind her with deliberate...