Chapter 8 No.8

In his office at The Sanctuary, Manager Franks sat back in his leather chair, feeling a sense of accomplishment. He had kept the riff-raff out. He had pleased the VIPs.

The phone on his desk rang. The caller ID made him sit up straight. Mr. Peters. The owner.

Franks grabbed the receiver. "Mr. Peters! Good evening!"

"How did the Clemons party enjoy the upgrade?" Chet's voice was casual, friendly.

"They loved it, sir! Miss Clemons was delightful. Very appreciative."

"Good," Chet said. "And Dylan? Did she like the view? I know she loves the city lights in the rain."

Franks paused. His blood ran cold. "Dylan?"

"The girl," Chet said. "The one the party was for. The guest of honor."

Franks felt the room spin. "There was... a girl in boots. We... we turned her away."

Silence.

It wasn't a peaceful silence. It was the kind of silence that preceded a bomb blast.

"You turned her away?" Chet's voice dropped an octave. It was no longer friendly.

"She... she violated dress code, sir," Franks stammered, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "She looked like... she didn't belong."

"She owns half the equipment in that kitchen, Franks," Chet said, his voice deadly quiet. "She's a silent partner. The one who uses the 'D. Clemons' alias specifically to test our staff's discretion. You just kicked out the boss."

Franks choked. "What?"

"Pray she doesn't fire you," Chet said. "Because I can't save you."

Click. The line went dead.

Franks stared at the wall, the receiver shaking in his hand. He had just declared war on the wrong person.

Miles away, the Range Rover approached the massive iron gates of Sovereign Heights. It was the most exclusive residential tower in the city, home to senators, tech moguls, and ghosts.

The security camera scanned the license plate. The gates opened silently.

Dylan looked up at the glass tower piercing the night sky.

"Home sweet home," she sighed.

They drove into the private underground garage. It was climate-controlled and filled with shapes under dust covers. A McLaren. A vintage Shelby.

Dylan grabbed her bag and headed to the private elevator. She placed her eye against the scanner.

Retina Confirmed. Welcome, Genesis.

The elevator shot up. It didn't stop until the 90th floor.

The doors opened. Dylan stepped out into a sprawling, modern penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a 360-degree view of the city. From here, the Clemons estate was just a speck of dust in the distance.