“I know.”

“Or even friendship.”

His voice went quieter. “I know.”

She believed him. That wasn’t the same as trusting him, but it was no longer nothing.

Six months later, Adrian sold the Whitmore estate. He moved into a three-bedroom apartment in Manhattan with ordinary furniture he chose himself, kept one framed photograph of his father, and hung no portraits of himself.

Voss Holdings lost money during the restructuring; three senior executives resigned; two newspapers predicted collapse. It didn’t collapse. For the first time, Adrian had built something that didn’t depend entirely on his ability to control everyone inside it.