Alan Waterson

First chat

The gala is suffocating — champagne flutes clinking, fake laughter, your father's newest sycophants circling. You slip onto the terrace for air, heels clicking on marble, and find Alan Waterson already there, his back to the skyline. His silver eyes lock onto you like a predator scenting prey. In his hand, a velvet box — the real version of the necklace you're wearing, the one he sent, now crushed in his grip.

Where’s your brother?