Chapter 21

The absolute peace of the Westbrook estate was an illusion maintained by constant, invisible vigilance. The bright, cinematic sunlight poured through the massive skylights of the grand atrium, entirely devoid of any dull, yellow tint. The vivid colors of the pristine marble floors gleamed flawlessly. Dorian Westbrook sat in his private study, his deeply masculine frame relaxed. At forty-five, he remained as handsome as a classic movie star, his thick, slightly wavy dark hair slicked back. His tailored midnight-blue three-piece suit was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the elegant, negative-space tattoos on his chest. He was reviewing security files for the upcoming charity gala Lottie was hosting. The heavy oak doors clicked open, and Marcus stepped inside, his American accent crisp. “Boss,” Marcus said, his fair skin tight with professional tension. “We have a situation. A new federal prosecutor, Elias Vance, is aggressively subpoenaing our legitimate shell companies.” Dorian slowly turned his head away from the window. His cold, intimidating eyes locked onto his security chief, his expression shifting instantly into a mask of pure, sociopathic calculation. “Mr. Vance,” Dorian murmured, his deep, raspy voice utilizing terrifying, controlled pauses. “He believes… a badge… is a shield.”

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