The drive to Downtown Paradise took eighteen minutes. She made it in twelve.
The Sovereign Tower rose before her like a blade stabbed into the night sky, all glass and steel and impossible arrogance—the architectural equivalent of a rich man flipping off the heavens and daring God to do something about it.
She'd been here before—had toured the building when it first opened, had considered buying a unit before Harold vetoed it as "unnecessary extravagance" (translation: it didn't have enough space to store his ego).
But she'd never felt this desperate clawing need to get inside.
The lobby was all white marble and soft lighting, a reception desk staffed by a woman in a crisp uniform who looked up with a professionally pleasant smile as Melissa strode through the doors like a woman on the verge of committing felony trespass.
"Good evening, ma'am. How may I assist you?"
"Floor 98. I need to access the residence."
