I walked into the Lane family villa knowing exactly what awaited me. The grand hall was impressive—marble floors polished to a mirror shine, ornate columns supporting a vaulted ceiling, and artwork that probably cost more than most people make in a lifetime. But I wasn't here to admire the décor.
Blaze Lane's eyes tracked my every movement like a predator sizing up its prey. His son Asher stood beside him, bruised face twitching with poorly concealed rage. The lean man to Blaze's left—undoubtedly his enforcer—maintained a professional stillness that spoke of years of violence.
"Please, sit," Blaze gestured to a chair positioned across from him. His voice was smooth, cultured—the practiced tone of someone used to getting his way through charm before resorting to force. "Tea?"
I took the seat, noting how it had been placed to ensure I'd be looking up at him. A servant appeared with a steaming pot and poured two cups of fragrant tea. Power plays within power plays.
