Web of Thorns
The silence in Alec Blackstone’s penthouse was deceiving.
Outside the tall windows, the city roared and breathed in its usual rhythm—cars honked, lights blinked like restless stars, and people moved with lives untouched by his storm. But inside, Alec stood like a shadow carved from stone, the calm only a mask worn by a man simmering with rage.
The slap still echoed in his mind.
Melissa Ivy Kane.
His secretary.
She had dared to strike him. Not once. Four times. In front of clients, in front of his board, in front of the very walls that had never seen Alec Blackstone humiliated. Not like this.
It wasn’t the pain of the slap—it was the burn of disrespect.
Alec tightened his fingers around the glass of whiskey until the amber liquid shivered. He didn’t drink tonight. No.
