Alexander Hale's penthouse occupied the top three floors of a steel-and-glass spire that pierced the city's skyline. It was not a home; it was a statement. A monument to achievement, taste, and impenetrable privacy.

The private elevator opened directly into a vast, double-height living space. Walls of floor-to-ceiling glass offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of the city and the distant bay. The interior was a study in minimalist perfection. Bleached oak floors, furniture in shades of charcoal, ivory, and slate, sharp angles, and vast, empty spaces. The only sounds were the nearly silent hum of climate control and the faint, mournful whistle of wind against the glass. It was stunning, sterile, and colder than the Sterling's marble foyer had ever been.