"Want to go upstairs?" I asked, cigarette between my fingers.
Clark snorted from behind the bar. "Kael, you can't leave a Johansen in his own building wondering."
"Watch me," I said, flicking ash into the metal tray. "I'm not here to network with princes tonight."
Flynn Johansen turned from the crowd like gravity shifted. He was exactly what everyone said: clean lines, cold face, the kind of money that made people rearrange their weekends. He didn't smile. He didn't need to.
"You know who I am," he said. His voice had the flat clarity of a verdict.
"I do," I said. "I follow the tabloids. I save the good gossip for later."
He moved to the bar as if he owned the space. He did, in a way. People stepped sideways and whispered. Clark leaned over and grinned. "Don't slow him down, Kael. He's on his way to ruin someone."
"He seems efficient," I said. "Is that part of the Johansen charm?"
Flynn fixed me with that lethal look. "What's the point of charm if it doesn't get results?"
I let my fingers tap the invitation I was holding. It was more theater than lifeline—a glossy card with TCC's logo, an offer to a private showing. Marcel wanted eyes; I wanted leverage. I needed one win that tasted like survival.
"You're a designer, right?" Flynn asked.
"Chief designer," I corrected. "TCC Design. We're small. We do clean lines
