At the same time, in Damian Cross’s sleek, glass-walled office, the air was ice-cold. The hum of the city below barely reached the top floor where Damian sat, reviewing profit charts that couldn’t distract him from the emptiness in his chest.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in,” he said without looking up.

Evelyn, his personal assistant — elegant, confident, and always too composed — stepped inside with a tablet in her hand.

“Sir, there’s something you should see.”

Damian didn’t even raise his head. “If it’s another delay report from the construction site, email it to the secretary.”

“It’s not about the site, sir.”

Her voice had that...