THE LUNA CLAUSE

The glass elevator climbed fifty-two floors in seconds. Myles Martins stood perfectly still at the center, watching the city shrink below him. At this height, the people on the sidewalks looked like ants. Authority was clearer when you could see the whole picture.

His reflection stared back at him from the elevator's polished walls. Six-foot-three, broad shoulders filling out a

charcoal gray suit that cost more than most people's cars.

His dark skin was flawless, his short curls perfectly groomed, and his sea-green eyes showed nothing of what he was thinking. Twenty years of business had taught him to keep his thoughts locked away where no one could read them.

The elevator chimed softly as it reached the top floor. The doors opened to reveal the executive level of Martins Corporation. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of Manhattan.

"Good morning, Mr. Martins."

His assistant, Patricia, was already waiting with his coffee and the morning briefing. She'd been with the company for eight years and knew better than to waste his time with small talk. She was human, like most of his employees, which meant she couldn't sense what he really was.

"The board meeting starts in ten minutes," she said, falling into step beside him. "Mr. Chen arrived early and wants to discuss the Shanghai expansion. Mrs. Rodriguez has concerns about the quarterly projections. And your father called twice this morning."

Myles stopped walking. "What did he want?"

"He didn't say. Just asked that you call him back before noon."

His father never called the office unless something was wrong. Or unless he was about to make something wrong. Myles had been running Martins Corporation for five years, but Martins Senior still acted like he owned everything, ‘including my damn life,’ he clenched his jaw.

"Tell him I'll call after the meeting," Myles said. "What else?"

"The Luna Foundation charity gala is this Saturday. We've confirmed three hundred guests, including Mayor Blackwell and Senator Hayes. The final seating chart is on your desk."

"Good. Anything else?"

Patricia hesitated for just a moment. "There was a call from a reporter. New York Tribune. She's been asking questions about the company."

"What kind of questions?"

"Detailed ones. About our offshore accounts. I told her to submit a formal request through our media relations department."

Myles felt something tighten in his chest. Journalists asking detailed questions usually meant trouble. Trouble that required careful handling.

"Get me everything we have on this reporter," he said. "Name, background, recent stories. I want it on my desk by this afternoon."

"Yes, sir."

The conference room was already full when they arrived. Twelve board members sat around a table. They were all human, ambitious, and completely unaware that who they were working for could kill them with his bare hands if he chose to.

Myles took his seat at the head of the table and looked around the room. These people thought they understood power because they controlled money. They had no idea what real power looked like.

"Let's begin," he said.

"The Shanghai deal is solid," said Chen, sliding a folder across the table. "But we need to move fast. The Chinese government won't keep the offer open indefinitely."

"What's the timeline?" Myles asked.

"Six weeks. Maybe less."

Myles nodded. Six weeks was manageable, assuming nothing else went wrong.

But lately, it felt like everything was going wrong. His father was pushing him to settle down and produce an heir. The pack elders were questioning his leadership. And now there was a reporter asking about offshore accounts.

How did she even know about that?

"Mrs. Rodriguez, you had concerns about the quarterly projections?"

Maria Rodriguez in her fifties, was one of the few board members who wasn't intimidated by his presence. She'd been with the company since before he took over, and she knew how to stand ramrod straight in the face of his intimidation.

"The numbers look good on paper," she said. "But there are some irregularities in our subsidiary spending. Money moving through accounts I can't track. It's not illegal, but it's not transparent either."

Myles kept his expression neutral, but inside he was calculating. The subsidiary accounts were how the pack funded its more sensitive operations. Security, territory maintenance, and payments to contacts who helped keep their supernatural activities hidden from human authorities. All necessary, but not the kind of expenses that belonged in public financial reports.

"Those accounts handle specialized security contracts," he said. "The details are confidential for obvious reasons."

"I understand the need for security," Rodriguez said. "But as a board member, I need to be able to verify that these expenses are legitimate business costs and not personal expenditures."

"Are you questioning my integrity, Mrs. Rodriguez?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Everyone else around the table looked uncomfortable, but Rodriguez held his gaze without flinching.

"I'm doing my job," she said. "Which is to protect the interests of our shareholders."

Myles stared at her. "I'll have our accounting department prepare a detailed breakdown for your review. Anything that can be disclosed without compromising our security operations will be included."

"Thank you."

By the time the meeting ended, Myles had made sixteen major decisions and approved expenses that would total over two hundred million dollars. It was a typical Tuesday morning.

After the board members left, Myles walked to his office and closed the door. What he really needed right now was privacy.

He pulled out his phone and dialed his father's number.

"It's about time," came the gruff voice on the other end.

"Patricia said you called. What's wrong?"

"Can't a father call his son without something being wrong?"

"You never do, so no."

Martins Senior laughed, but there was no humor in it. "We need to talk. Tonight. My office."

"I have dinner plans with—"

"Cancel them. This is pack business."

The line went dead. Myles stared at his phone for a moment, then set it aside. ‘Pack business’ usually meant bad news.

A soft knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. Patricia entered with a stack of documents.

"The information you requested," she said, placing a folder on his desk. "About the reporter."

Myles opened the folder and found himself looking at a photograph of a young woman with light brown curls and pretty hazel eyes. She was beautiful, but there was something intense about her expression that made him look twice.

"Sylvie Carter," he read from the attached bio. "Twenty-four years old. Investigative journalist with the New York Tribune. Specializes in corruption and financial crimes."

He flipped through the pages, scanning her recent articles. She was good at her job, that much was clear. Her stories were well-researched and thoroughly documented.

"She's been asking about our subsidiary companies," Patricia said. "Specifically about accounts that don't appear in our public filings."

"How much does she know?"

"It's hard to tell. She's been careful about her questions. But she's definitely looking for something specific."

Myles studied the photograph again. There was something about this woman that bothered him, though he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Maybe it was the intensity in her eyes, or the way she seemed to be looking directly at the camera as if she could see through the lens to whoever might be viewing the picture.

"She'll be at the charity gala," Patricia said. "I checked the guest list. She's registered as press."

"Is she now?" Myles closed the folder and leaned back in his chair. "Interesting."

"Should I have security keep an eye on her?"

"No. Let her come. Let her ask her questions." He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the city that sprawled below his tower. "Sometimes the best way to handle a problem is to get close enough to understand exactly what you're dealing with."

"Sir?"

He turned back to Patricia. "Make sure Ms. Carter has everything she needs at the gala. Good seat, access to the right people, whatever she requires to do her job."

Patricia looked confused, but she nodded. "Of course."

After she left, Myles walked back to his desk and opened the folder again. He studied Sylvie Carter's photograph, trying to understand why she seemed familiar even though he was certain they'd never met.

In his experience, that usually meant one of two things. Either she was going to be important…

Or a very serious problem.