Adrian Valecrest
(Future)
Adrian Valecrest had always believed panic was something that happened to other people.
He sat in the back seat of his car as it moved through traffic, the city sliding past in clean lines of steel and reflective glass. Buildings rose and fell like rehearsed scenery. This was his city. He had funded parts of it, reshaped corners of it, watched it bend politely around his influence.
Beside him, his lawyer spoke without pause, voice low and measured, outlining contingencies, response timelines, potential statements. Words like narrative, exposure, and containment floated through the car like a foreign language Adrian understood fluently but no longer trusted.
He nodded at the right moments. Asked the right questions. Performed concern.
His attention stayed fixed on the window.
His reflection stared back at him, uninterrupted. Same tailored suit. Same careful grooming. Same calm mouth that knew how to soften rooms. He looked unchanged.
That was what unsettled him.
He had built his life on the assumption that control was durable. That charm outlived memory. That money absorbed consequence the way thick carpet absorbed sound. Mistakes had always dissolved before they reached him—handled quietly, signed away, forgotten.
"This will pass," he said finally, the words slipping out with practiced ease.
The lawyer hesitated. Just long enough. "It might," he said. "But not if more material surfaces."
Adrian smiled. "It won't."
But his mind betrayed him. Seraphina, seated at the head of the table. Not furious. Not wounded. Watching him like a variable she was recalculating. He had never been measured by her before. Only accommodated.
His phone vibrated in his hand.
No name. No image. Just a message.
We need to talk.
He typed a reply. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted that too. When he locked the screen, the phone felt heavier, less like an extension of his authority and more like an object that could be taken from him. Logged. Tracked. Presented.
Evidence.
Adrian leaned back, closing his eyes briefly, breathing through the tightness in his chest.
This was temporary. It had always been temporary.
He had told himself that many times before—and it had always worked.
Until now.