ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY SEVEN

GRAYSON'S POV

I stepped out of my office, the weight of the day hanging on my shoulders, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was just another day at the top, where the world and its demands never seemed to let up. I walked into my private elevator, the familiar hum of the machinery doing little to distract me from the monotony of my routine. The doors slid shut, and I pressed the button for the ground floor, thinking about how much I was looking forward to getting home, to unwinding with a glass of whiskey and a good book—or maybe just zoning out in front of the TV for a change.

The elevator descended smoothly, and when the doors opened, Paul was already there, waiting for me as usual. We exchanged nods, a silent understanding passing between us. Paul was the kind of man you could rely on—steady, unflappable, and always in control. We walked together to the garage, the click of our shoes echoing in the quiet space.

Just as we were about to reach my car, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I