The elevator doors slide open, revealing the sleek, cold interior of Alex's penthouse. The tension between Alex and Michael is palpable as they step inside, their footsteps echoing against the marble floors. I trail behind them, my heart pounding, unsure if I'm prepared for whatever bombshell Michael is about to drop.
"Start talking," Alex demands, his voice sharp as he loosens his tie and tosses it onto the nearest chair. "Why are you suddenly playing the hero, Michael? What's your angle?"
Michael smirks, but the usual arrogance in his expression is tempered by something heavier—guilt. He moves to the bar, pouring himself a generous glass of whiskey before turning back to face us.
"My angle?" he repeats, raising the glass to his lips. "Let's just say I've realized there are limits to how far I'm willing to go, even for Victoria."
