The air in the 36th-floor lobby was thick with anticipation, or perhaps just the hum of the central air conditioning. Faith Reed straightened the lapels of her blazer, her gaze fixed on the gleaming elevator doors. Beside her, her husband, Bill, fidgeted, a bead of sweat tracing a nervous path down his temple.

“Faith, remember, we owe him…” Bill’s voice was a low, desperate mumble, laced with a familiar tremor. Faith shot him a warning glance, her dark blue eyes holding a silent promise of retribution later.

Then, the doors parted, and Alexander Kingston stepped out. He moved with a predatory grace, his perfectly polished shoes clicking softly on the white tiled floor. Faith’s breath hitched, a phantom memory of his hot breath on her neck sending a shiver through her. He was a ghost from a past she’d desperately tried to bury, a sensation that had permeated every fiber of her being.

“Mr. Kingston, it is my pleasure to introduce you to my wife, Faith Reed,” Bill announced, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Faith extended a hand, her own smile polite, practiced. Their eyes met—his emerald jade, ancient and knowing; hers, momentarily wide with a recognition that clawed at her composure. His fingers, icy and long, brushed the inside of her palm, and a jolt, both familiar and terrifying, coursed through her.