Emily Dumitrescu had supposedly died in an explosion on a private yacht off the coast of Italy. That was the official story. A mechanical failure. A burst of flame. Debris scattered across dark water. The investigation concluded quickly. Too quickly.
There were no bodies recovered.
Just fragments.
For months, Alexander fought the conclusion. He demanded independent reports. Hired investigators. Searched for inconsistencies. But grief has a cruel way of wearing down even the strongest mind. Eventually, he stopped digging.
Because hope, when it has nowhere to land, becomes unbearable.
That night, a charity gala was being held in the building’s grand ballroom. His name gleamed in gold letters across a banner near the entrance. Alexander made a brief appearance, wrote an enormous check, posed for photographs with a practiced smile, and retreated upstairs before the applause faded.
He poured himself a glass of bourbon—not because he enjoyed it, but because the ritual filled the quiet.
The elevator chimed.
Samuel Turner, his head of security, stepped out. Former Navy. Impeccable posture. Rarely flustered.
“Sir… there’s an issue.”
Alexander didn’t turn around fully. “Handle it.”
Samuel hesitated.