“How did he get in?” Stellan demanded, his tone icy. “My security is impenetrable. How did Jesper Hojberg bypass every lock and scanner to walk through my doors without tripping an alarm?” Linnea met his gaze, unflinching despite the raw fury emanating from him. “I don’t know,” she stated, her voice quiet but firm. “The system flagged his biometric signature at the main gate, just like anyone else. But then… nothing. No alarms, no override logs, just a clean passage.” Stellan stared at her, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He didn’t believe her, not entirely. The suspicion, cold and sharp, still pricked at him. The Peregrine’s device, Jesper’s effortless entry—the coincidences were too many, too precise. He wanted to lash out, to accuse, to demand answers she clearly didn't have, or wouldn't give. But his mind was a whirlwind of a different kind of calculation. Midnight. The Aethelgard Collective pulling out. His empire, teetering. He stalked to the panoramic windows, his silhouette stark against the deepening gloom of Vestergard. Outside, the sky churned, a bruised purple-grey. Rain, which had been a persistent drizzle all day, began to lash against the glass in sheets, each impact a frantic drumming. Far across the city, a flash of lightning illuminated the distant, jagged skyline. The sky growled, vibrating through the structural steel. Linnea watched him, then glanced at the dossier still lying on the desk, its charcoal cover a stark reminder of Jesper’s cruel pronouncement. Barnaby, who had been curled quietly on the plush rug, lifted his one ear, a soft whine escaping him as the wind howled around the penthouse. A deep, resonant boom shook the building. Stellan flinched, a subtle tremor running through his rigid frame. He stood transfixed by the storm, his gaze distant, lost somewhere far beyond the glass. Then, with a glare that momentarily bleached the entire room white, an explosive crack ripped directly overhead, rattling the panes. The overhead circuits blinked out, leaving absolute blackness. Utter, terrifying darkness descended. The emergency floor lighting, a faint phosphorescent strip, hummed to life along the baseboards, but it did little to dispel the oppressive gloom. Rain hammered the windows with renewed ferocity, and the wind shrieked like a banshee. Stellan let out a ragged gasp. He stumbled back from the window, his hand flying to his chest. The carefully constructed mask of control shattered, revealing something raw and exposed beneath. He sank to his knees, not gracefully, but as if his legs had simply given out. His breath came in shallow, frantic gasps, his eyes wide and unseeing in the dim light. He clawed at the expensive fabric of his suit jacket, as if trying to tear it away, to find air. Linnea, startled by the sudden darkness, fumbled for her phone. The screen cast a weak, bluish glow. She saw Stellan, a crumpled heap on the floor, shuddering uncontrollably. His face was pale, glistening with a cold sweat. He wasn’t looking at her, or at anything in the room, but into some terrifying space only he could perceive. “Stellan?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the storm’s roar. “Are you alright?” He didn’t respond, only continued to gasp, a choked, guttural sound. His hands were shaking violently. It wasn't a panic attack she recognized from self-help articles; this was something deeper, older, a primal terror that had seized him whole. Barnaby, sensing the shift, nudged Linnea’s hand with his wet nose, then padded cautiously towards Stellan, letting out a soft whimper. He licked Stellan’s hand, a small, warm gesture in the cold, dark room. “It’s the thunder,” Linnea murmured, understanding dawning. She remembered vague whispers from the corporate gossip mill, hushed stories about a particularly brutal storm during Stellan’s childhood, coinciding with his father’s sudden disappearance. A raw wound, buried deep. She scanned the room, her phone light dancing across sleek, minimalist surfaces. There. A small drawer beneath a console table. She rummaged inside, her fingers closing around a wax taper and a box of matches. She struck a match. The small flame pushed back the encroaching shadows, casting amber patterns on the plaster walls. “Come on,” Linnea said softly, moving to Stellan. She knelt beside him, resting the taper on the floor so its light caught his hollow cheeks. “Let’s get you to the bed. It’s alright.” She reached for his arm, her touch gentle but firm. He flinched away initially, a spasm of revulsion, but she persisted, slowly, carefully. His skin felt cold and clammy beneath her fingers. With effort, she helped him to his feet, guiding his trembling form towards the expansive bed that dominated one wall of the penthouse. Each booming detonation outside made him seize up, his breathing growing more erratic. He collapsed onto the edge of the mattress, his head in his hands, still gasping. Linnea set the flame on the bedside table, its yellow aura steady in the dark. Barnaby, ever loyal, hopped onto the bed, nestling against Stellan’s hip, a warm, solid weight. “It’s okay,” Linnea repeated, her voice a low, soothing murmur. She sat beside him, leaving a careful distance. “It’s just a storm. It will pass.” Another concussive blast echoed outside, and Stellan let out a strangled cry, his entire body convulsing. He reached out blindly in the dark. His hand found Linnea’s arm, gripping it with bone-aching force. He didn’t pull her close, not at first, but simply held on, a man drowning. His knuckles were white. “Please,” he rasped, his voice raw, unrecognisable. “Don’t… don’t leave.” The words, stripped bare of all his usual arrogance and control, were a shocking confession. He, the man who equated vulnerability with weakness, was begging. Linnea didn’t hesitate. She shifted closer, letting him anchor himself to her. She felt the tremor in his body, the frantic beat of his heart against her arm. Slowly, tentatively, she wrapped her free arm around his shoulders. He was rigid, unyielding, but he didn’t pull away. With the next concussive boom, Stellan shuddered violently, twisting to pull her against his ribs with brutal strength. Barnaby, startled for a moment, burrowed between Stellan’s side and Linnea’s stomach, a furry, living shield. Stellan's arms clamped around them both, an unyielding lock. His face was buried in her hair, his ragged breaths warming her scalp. She could feel the rapid thump of his heart against her ear. He clung to her, a man lost at sea clutching a piece of driftwood. It was not affection, but the raw instinct of a survivor clinging to ballast. Linnea held him, stroking his hair, murmuring soft, nonsensical reassurances as the storm raged outside, and inside, his personal tempest raged just as fiercely. They stayed like that for hours as the wick slowly burned down, casting their silhouettes against the headboard. The gale outside eventually softened to a distant grumble, the rain a steady patter. Stellan’s breathing gradually evened out, the tremors subsiding. He was still holding her, his grip slackened but firm, his head still resting in her hair. Barnaby snored softly between them, a warm, comforting presence. When dawn finally broke, painting the Vestergard sky in hues of pale grey and muted rose, Stellan was still asleep, his face peaceful in repose. Linnea was stiff, but a profound quiet had settled over the suite. The air, washed clean by the storm, felt different, softer. Stellan stirred, a low murmur escaping him. His eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep, and for a moment, he simply looked at her, his gaze unclouded by fear or calculation. A tender, almost bewildered expression crossed his face. He tightened his grip instinctively, pulling her a fraction closer. The proximity was startling, intimate, blurring every line of their contract, every wall he had so meticulously built. Linnea caught her breath, stillness catching in her ribs as an unfamiliar warmth settled between them. Then, his phone, lying on the bedside table, vibrated. The screen lit up, a stark rectangle of light in the dim morning. A message. Stellan glanced at it, still holding Linnea close. His eyes narrowed, the last vestiges of sleep fleeing. His jaw tightened, and the tender moment shattered, replaced by the familiar coldness. His thumb hovered, then tapped the screen. **Jesper Hojberg:** *I know she is a fraud, brother.*

Thunder in the Glass