The Obsidian Spire

The headquarters of Sterling Corp was known colloquially as the Obsidian Spire. It was a seventy-story needle of black glass piercing the Midtown skyline. The top five floors were Dominic’s private residence and personal offices.

Harper sat in a Herman Miller chair that cost more than her college tuition, typing furiously on a terminal Dominic had set up in his living room.

"You realize," Harper said, not looking up from the scrolling code, "that your firewall is Swiss cheese. I got past the outer perimeter in four minutes."

Dominic was in the kitchen area, pouring two espressos. He had shed the tuxedo jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. His forearms were corded with muscle, thick veins running from wrist to elbow.

"That's why you're here," Dominic called back. "Sugar?"

"Black. Like my soul," Harper deadpanned.

Dominic walked over and set the cup down. He leaned over her shoulder to look at the screen. He smelled of espresso and something earthy—like rain on asphalt. It was distracting.

"Find anything?"

"I'm tracking the data packets," Harper said, pointing to a red line tracing a path through the network visualization. "The leak isn't coming from the lower levels. It’s executive tier. Someone with Level 5 clearance."

"That narrows it down to six people," Dominic said, his jaw tightening. "My inner circle."

"Your CFO, Marcus Thorne, has been accessing the archive server at 3:00 AM for the last two weeks," Harper noted. "Does he have insomnia?"

"Marcus has been with me for ten years," Dominic said, but there was doubt in his eyes. "He manages the charitable trusts."

"About that," Harper spun the chair around to face him. "I found where the forty million went. It wasn't the Caymans."

Dominic stiffened. He leaned against the heavy oak desk, crossing his ankles. "Oh?"

"You bought three abandoned warehouses in the Bronx, a defunct farm in upstate New York, and a shipping container complex in Jersey," Harper listed off. "And you’re paying for massive amounts of food delivery, medical supplies, and... high-tensile steel fencing?"

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Are you building a prison, Sterling? Or a cult compound?"

Dominic took a sip of his coffee. He looked at her over the rim of the cup, his amber eyes unreadable.

"Safe houses," he said quietly.

"For who?"

"For at-risk youths," Dominic said. It sounded rehearsed. "Kids who have nowhere else to go. Kids who are... different."

"Different how?" Harper pressed. "Are we talking X-Men different? Because the sheer tonnage of raw meat being delivered to the upstate farm suggests you're raising tigers."

Dominic laughed, a low rumble. "Something like that. Look, Harper. The world is a dangerous place for people who don't fit the mold. I give them a place to exist without being hunted."

Harper stared at him. She wanted to find the greed. She wanted to find the corruption. But the ledger didn't lie. He wasn't profiting from this. He was hemorrhaging money to keep these places running.

"You're weird, Sterling," she muttered, turning back to the screen.

"And you," Dominic said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, "are surprisingly cynical for someone trying to save the world."

His fingers brushed her skin. A static shock, sharp and hot, zipped between them.

Harper jerked back. Dominic pulled his hand away slowly, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second.

"Keep digging," he said, his voice rougher than before. "I have a meeting."

He walked away. Harper watched him go, ignoring the way her heart did a traitorous little flip in her chest.

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