Continue reading to discover what happens next.

2 - 15

The morning sun broke over the Nashville skyline at 5:32 AM, casting a pale, golden light across the rain-washed pavements of the city. Inside the flagship penthouse suite on the top floor of the resort, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the quiet devastation waiting downstairs.

Julian Vance rolled over in the king-sized bed, stretching his arms out lazily across the Egyptian cotton sheets. The scent of expensive jasmine perfume lingered in the air—not my scent, but the sweet, heavy fragrance favored by his mistress, Chloe, who was currently curled up on the adjacent side of the mattress, snoring softly with my grandmother’s emerald pendant resting haphazardly against her collarbone.

Julian smiled to himself, feeling a surge of absolute invincibility. Last night had been a triumph. Throwing Elena out of the lobby in front of high-profile investors and senior executives had been a bold move, yes, but Julian viewed it as a necessary severing of dead weight. For months, he had felt suffocated by Elena’s quiet presence, her maddening habit of observing everything while saying nothing, her subtle corrections during board meetings that he always managed to spin as his own brilliance. He had convinced himself that he no longer needed her. He was the face of the brand. He was the visionary.

He slid out of bed, slipping his bare feet into silk slippers, and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows to admire the view of the city he supposedly conquered. Below him, the sprawling resort grounds were quiet, the manicured gardens glistening with morning dew. Everything looked pristine. Everything looked prosperous.

Julian glanced at his Rolex on the nightstand. 6:00 AM sharp. Time for his usual morning routine: a quick swipe of his executive keycard to access the private elevator, a brisk walk through the lower atrium to check on the morning prep, and a double shot of espresso served by a trembling junior barista eager to impress the great Julian Vance.

He showered quickly, pulling on a bespoke charcoal suit that had been tailored specifically for his upcoming quarterly investor presentation. As he checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror, smoothing back his dark hair with practiced arrogance, he felt a fleeting twinge of memory regarding Elena’s tear-stained face in the rain, but he brushed it aside instantly. Women like Elena were easily replaced. She would pack her bags, take whatever modest alimony settlement his lawyers deemed appropriate, and disappear into obscurity.

With a confident stride, Julian grabbed his leather briefcase, walked out of the master bedroom, and headed toward the private elevator foyer of the penthouse.

He pressed his gold-embossed executive keycard against the sleek black scanner panel beside the elevator doors.

BEEP.

Instead of the familiar, welcoming chime and the smooth hum of the descending cable, a harsh, grating red light flashed across the glass panel.

Julian frowned, tapping the card against the scanner a second time.

ACCESS DENIED. PLEASE CONTACT SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR.

“What kind of glitch is this?” Julian muttered under his breath, shaking his head in mild irritation. He pulled out his smartphone to call the front desk, tapping his personal speed dial for Marcus, his head of security.

The phone rang three times before an automated carrier voice cut in: “The subscriber you are trying to reach is no longer available on this network.”

Julian stared at his phone screen in disbelief. “What the hell?”

Annoyance bubbling into genuine anger, Julian turned away from the private elevator and walked down the long, carpeted corridor toward the service stairs. If the smart-card system was down, he would take the stairs down to the main lobby, chew out the IT director, and demand an explanation before the morning rush began.

As he pushed open the heavy fire door leading to the twelfth-floor landing, his dress shoes clicked sharply against the concrete steps. He descended two flights quickly, pushing open the heavy glass door that led to the executive administrative floor—the secure hub where his personal assistant, his CFO, and his core management team operated.

The floor was completely dark.

Not a single computer monitor glowed. The sleek, minimalist reception desk where his assistant usually sat at 6:15 AM sharp was entirely empty, devoid of laptops, coffee cups, or paperwork.

“Hello?” Julian called out, his voice echoing loudly down the empty hallway. “Is anyone here?”

Silence.

A prickle of unease finally began to creep up the back of Julian’s neck. He walked briskly toward his private corner office—the grand executive suite featuring double mahogany doors and a brass nameplate that read: JULIAN VANCE, CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER.

He reached out and grabbed the brass handle, pushing down firmly.

The door didn't budge. It was deadbolted from the inside—not with a standard mechanical lock, but with a heavy-duty electronic security override that could only be activated by master root credentials.

Julian’s breath hitched. He pounded his fist once against the solid wood. “Open up! Who locked this office?”

Just then, the soft chime of a computer terminal echoed from the open-plan bullpen behind him. Julian whipped around, his eyes locking onto a single workstation near the center of the room. The monitor had suddenly flickered to life, displaying a single, stark white text box against a black background.