Caius stood from his desk, jaw clenched. Heather had just hung up on him. No warning. No explanation.
Why?
His instincts screamed. Heather never acted like that unless something was very wrong. And she sure as hell didn't just hang up on him.
He paced the room, his movements sharp and deliberate, like a lion circling the edge of a cage.
Something's off.
She sounded scared—shaky. And that text… *i niid ur hapel rigrht nkw*—the sloppiness wasn't her. That wasn't a typo. That was something else. Perhaps desperation?
He sat down and pulled up the call trace. 19th and Wexler. The Glass Ember. Midtown. Supposedly a gala venue. He frowned. That address rang a bell, wasn't that the new gala venue Heather mentioned last week?
But when he searched the name, the photos told a red carpet event location. It's been their source for years now... But rumors suggested otherwise.
