The Collateral Clause

The marble floor of the Voss Tower lobby is cold through the soles of your heels, a sharp contrast to the humid midnight air that clings to your skin. You've been standing for twenty minutes, watching the elevator banks, your father's final plea still vibrating in your pocket on the phone you haven't answered.

The building is silent. The cleaning crew left hours ago. The only sound is the soft hum of the ventilation system and the click of your own nails against the leather of your clutch.

The main doors slide open.

Dorian Voss steps inside like he owns the place—which, in six hours, he will. He's taller than the photos in the financial papers suggest, and the cut of his coat is expensive, deliberate. He doesn't look at you right away. He lets his gaze sweep the lobby, the marble, the empty reception desk, as if taking inventory of what he's about to take.

Then his eyes land on you.

"Your father sent you instead," he says. Not a question. His voice is low, unhurried, and it carries in the empty space like a warning.

You feel the weight of the document folder in your clutch. The one with the signatures your father couldn't bring himself to make.