Harrowgate looked different from this high up—sharper, colder, almost too polished to be real. From the top floor of Ross & Sons, the skyline glittered like a jeweled crown set against a cloud-thick winter afternoon. Alaia Hart kept her eyes on the panoramic window longer than she meant to. She didn’t want Ethan Ross to walk in and find her staring like someone who’d never seen the city from above.

But the office made it hard not to stare.

Everything inside it radiated intention. Not wealth—though that was obvious too—but control. The sleek furniture, the exact angles of the lighting, the absence of clutter. As if someone had extracted every ounce of chaos from the space and sealed it out. Even the silence felt engineered. Her footsteps whispered into the thick rug, the air-conditioning hummed in an unnervingly steady rhythm, and somehow, impossibly, not a single sound from the city filtered in.

Alaia tightened her grip on her notebook. She’d interviewed corporate leaders before, but never one whose office felt like a psychological test.

A soft click shattered the stillness.

The door opened.

She turned—and lost her rehearsed introduction in the space between one breath and the next.

Ethan Ross walked in with the sort of controlled calm that belonged to men who didn’t rush and didn’t need to. His suit—charcoal, sharp, impossibly precise—fit him like it had been designed with him standing in the room. But it wasn’t the suit or the wealth or the posture that struck her.

It was the stillness.

Other powerful men filled rooms; Ethan bent the room around him. He moved like a shadow given structure—quiet, observant, seeming to assess everything without a flicker of emotion on his face. His features were clean-lined, unreadable, carved into a composure that felt less like confidence and more like armor.

But his eyes.

Steel-gray. Storm-muted. Watchful in a way that made her feel suddenly, uncomfortably seen.

“Miss Hart,” he said, voice low and even. “Thank you for coming.”

She exhaled—she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.

“Thank you for agreeing to the interview, Mr. Ross.”

“I don’t do many,” he replied.

Something in the corner of his mouth shifted—almost a smile, or the ghost of one. The closest thing she’d seen to human warmth since he entered.

He gestured toward the seating area: two armchairs angled toward each other, a glass table between them. She followed, sitting carefully, trying not to sink too deeply into the luxurious cushions. Her recorder rested atop her notebook. He didn’t look at it, but she could feel the weight of his awareness.

“Your request was unusually direct,” he said, taking the seat opposite her. “Most journalists attempt flattery.”

She blinked. “Was that… a compliment?”

“A statement.” His gaze held hers a fraction too long. “Possibly a compliment.”

Heat pricked her cheeks. Smooth, Alaia. Very professional.

“Well,” she cleared her throat, “I appreciate your time. I know your schedule must be—”

“Busy is just a word people use to feel important,” he cut in gently. “People make time for what matters.”

She wasn’t sure whether she should feel flattered or wary. Probably both.

She pressed the recorder button.

“Let’s start with Ross & Sons’ new community surveillance initiative. Many citizens worry it might—”

“I’m aware,” he said. Calm. Controlled. Fingers steepled. “People fear what they don’t understand.”

Alaia’s brow arched. “Or what’s been abused before.”

Something shifted in his eyes—so quickly she would’ve missed it if she hadn’t spent a decade learning to read people.

“True,” he said at last. “Which is why transparency is central to our rollout.”

Uh-huh. He said the words like someone who had already calculated every possible reaction to them.

She wrote shorthand notes, watching him. Ethan Ross didn’t speak like other CEOs. He didn’t sell. He didn’t charm. He didn’t even deflect.

He… chose.

Every word, every breath, every tiny shift of expression.

“Your father built this company essentially from the ground up,” Alaia said. “Do you feel pressure to honor that legacy?”

For the first time, his expression changed in a way she could track. Something tightened—barely there, but present. Not grief. Something colder. Older.

“My father believed in order,” he said quietly. “Systems. Foundations people could rely on.” He looked past her, toward the window. “I’m continuing the structure he created.”

Not an answer. But somehow, the truest response she’d gotten.

Alaia softened her tone. “Is that what motivates your philanthropic programs?”

His jaw tensed. “I don’t do philanthropy.”

He met her eyes. “I correct imbalances.”

The phrasing prickled the back of her neck, but she didn’t show it. She simply made a clean note: Not philanthropy → ideology?

She was about to shift into her next line of questioning when her phone vibrated loudly in her bag.

Mortifying.

She silenced it instantly. “Sorry. I meant to turn that off.”

“You can answer it,” Ethan said.

“It’s fine.”

His gaze didn’t move. If anything, it sharpened. “Are you sure?”

Why did he sound almost… concerned?

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Let’s continue.”

But Ethan didn’t look away from her for several long seconds—long enough that her pulse spiked without reason, long enough that she felt heat move under her skin.

Not because he was intimidating.

Because he was watching her the way people watched puzzle pieces—trying to see where they fit.

She forced her voice steady. “Some critics say your security technology crosses ethical lines. They’re calling it ‘intrusive philanthropy.’ Any thoughts?”

Amusement touched his mouth. “People enjoy dramatic labels.”

“Like you?” she said before she could stop herself.

Ethan stilled.

Then—he laughed.

Not loudly. Not warmly.

But real.

And the quiet sound slipped through her like heat, unexpected and unsettling.

“I see your reputation for directness is well-earned,” he said.

“And yours for evasiveness,” she returned.

His eyes glinted—dangerous, playful, or maybe neither. “So you think I’m hiding something.”

He said it casually. She felt anything but.

“I think everyone hides something,” she said softly.

His gaze sharpened—laser precise, assessing her in a way that made the air feel thinner.

“Some things are worth hiding,” he murmured.

Her breath caught.

The room seemed to still around them, the silence drawing itself tight like a held note.

Before she could speak, the elevator chimed faintly in the outer hallway. Footsteps approached—measured, professional. A woman in sleek black appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand.

“Mr. Ross. Security is ready for your final review.”

“Tell them I’ll be down shortly,” he said without looking at her.

“Yes, sir.” She disappeared as quickly as she’d arrived.

Alaia blinked. “Security? Are you anticipating… something? A threat?”

“Nothing unusual,” he said. “Routine.”

But his voice had changed. A fractional shift. A subtle tightening she might have missed earlier. Something in him had gone alert.

Not scared.

Not worried.

Just… aware.

She ended the interview there. She didn’t want to—but Ethan had changed again, subtly sliding into a version of himself she didn’t know how to navigate. The edges felt sharper now.

“Thank you for your time,” she said, rising.

Ethan stood too. He didn’t offer his hand. Somehow, the absence suited him.

But he did look at her—longer than necessary, steady enough to unsettle her balance.

“If anything changes regarding your investigation,” he said, “call me.”

“My investigation?” she repeated.

“The vigilante,” he said. “The one they call Chase.”

Her heart stumbled.

“How is that relevant to you?” she asked.

Something dark drifted behind his eyes. A shadow passing behind glass.

“Everything in this city becomes relevant eventually.”

Alaia swallowed. Hard.

Someone else might have chalked his words up to arrogance.

She didn’t.

She heard them for what they were:

Not a boast.

Not a threat.

A warning.

And she wasn’t sure which part unsettled her more—the warning itself, or the fact that he delivered it without flinching.