As soon as they fed us that lie"no record of Tyler Lockwood" I didn't even flinch. I leaned forward, locked eyes with the bob-cut ice queen behind the desk, and said, calm as steel:
"I want to speak to your boss. The real one. Whoever's running this damn place."
She looked like she wanted to argue. But I wasn't in the mood. Neither was Eric. And something about the way he stood behind me, silent and coiled, must've told her we weren't leaving until someone important showed up.
Ten minutes later, we were ushered through a maze of sterile halls and badge-locked doors. Then into a private office that screamed power: leather chairs, security screens, a live feed of the city, and a man behind a desk with a face that had probably ruined a thousand careers.
The LA government director. The real boss.
He didn't even introduce himself.
"What do you want?" he asked, like we were interrupting his golf game.
I stepped forward, cool and composed. "I'm here about Tyler Lockwood."
