Henry Jackson's hands tightened around the steering wheel of his black SUV, the leather creaking beneath his grip. His knuckles had gone pale, tension thrumming through every muscle as he maneuvered through the city's morning chaos. The sun was rising high, spreading molten light across glass towers that clawed at the sky — but to Henry, it wasn't warmth he felt. It was exposure. Every glint of sunlight seemed to mock him, reminding him of the storm he was driving straight into.
It had been two long weeks since that disastrous confrontation — since Rafael's fury had shattered the air like a thunderclap and Eliana's trembling figure had been dragged out of Vexley Enterprises as though she were nothing. That moment had burned itself into Henry's mind, playing over and over with cruel clarity. Rafael's cold fury, the guards' unyielding grip on her arms, the way she'd crumpled in defeat—it fueled a fire in him that no amount of logic could extinguish.
