"I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul." — William Ernest Henley

  The city outside is drowning in sin and secrets. But me? I sit untouched by the chaos, draped in shadow, a spectator to the madness. The air in my penthouse is thick with the scent of burning tobacco and aged whiskey, the dim lights casting long, jagged shadows across the polished floor.

  Across from me, Lucas lounges like he owns the place—feet kicked up on the table, phone in hand, that lazy smirk plastered across his face.

  He doesn’t take much seriously. But I do.

  Lucas finally speaks, his tone casual. “So… the Syndicator is hosting another auction next week. Thought you’d want to know, even though we haven’t given a damn about those for a year.”

  I don’t react. Just swirl the whiskey in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. I already know. I’ve known for weeks.

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  Lucas glances up, catching my silence, his smirk faltering just slightly. “Wait… we’re not actually going, are we?”

  I finally lift my gaze, letting a slow, knowing smirk curve my lips.

  "We are."

  Lucas blinks, then sits up straight. “Seriously? Thought you were done with all that.”

  I lean back in my chair, calm, still—the kind of stillness that makes men nervous.

  "Things change."

  Lucas lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Right. And by ‘things,’ you mean what exactly? Because last I checked, you were done with the Syndicator’s little pet market."

  I watch him, unreadable. The city lights flicker in my glass, reflecting in the depths of my whiskey. But there’s something else there too—something colder, something planned.

  "They’re going to present something special this time."

  Lucas narrows his eyes slightly. “And you suddenly care about that?”

  I smile. It’s slow. Calculated.

  "I don’t leave things unfinished, Lucas. This time, I’m getting exactly what I want."

  Lucas sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. Whatever you say, boss. We’re going to the damn auction.”

  I raise my glass in a mock toast, taking a slow sip.

  They think they’re setting a trap.

  But the Syndicator doesn’t realize—

  They already walked into mine.