THE LUNA CLAUSE

1:

Rise of the pink moon

“Ughhhh” Sylvie groaned as she felt like tossing her phone across the room.

"Sylvie? Thank God. You need to get in here. Now."

"It's not even 6am, Marcus. What's so important that—"

"Myles Martins."

She paused. Myles Martins. That name that made any journalist sit up and pay full attention. Billionaire CEO, mysterious background, zero interviews in the past five years. The guy was practically a ghost with a Forbes ranking.

"What about him?"

"Big story. Career-making story. But I need to brief you in person. How fast can you get here?"

She looked down at her oversized t-shirt and wool socks. "Give me an hour."

"Make it thirty minutes. And Sylvie? This stays between us until I know we can trust you with it."

The line went dead. She stared at her phone for a moment, then ran out to make coffee. It burned her tongue, but she didn't care. This was it. This was the break she'd been working toward for three years of covering small-time corruption and petty political scandals.

She hurriedly took her shower, threw on a fresh pair of jeans and a clean sweater, then grabbed her laptop bag and headed for the door. But something made her stop at the small mirror by the entrance.

Her reflection looked tired. Dark circles under hazel eyes, light brown curls escaping from yesterday's ponytail. She looked like exactly what she was—a twenty-four-year-old journalist living on deadline stress and takeout food.

But there was something else in her reflection. Something that had been there her whole life but seemed stronger lately. An awareness that felt predatory. She shook her head and grabbed her keys. No time for weird thoughts.

The subway was its usual morning nightmare, packed with commuters who looked as thrilled to be awake as she felt. She squeezed into a corner and pulled out her phone, doing a quick search on Myles Martins.

The results were frustrating. Company press releases, a few blurry photos from charity events. The guy was forty-five billion dollars worth of mystery. His company, Martins Corporation, had interests in everything from real estate to tech to pharmaceuticals. But the man himself? Nothing personal. No family photos, no college friends selling stories to tabloids, no ex-girlfriends with tell-all books.

That kind of privacy didn't happen by accident. It took serious money and serious control to stay that invisible, especially being that wealthy.

The train lurched to a stop, and she fought her way onto the platform. Twenty minutes later, she was walking through the lobby of the New York Tribune, heading to Marcus's office on the fifteenth floor. She knocked and pushed through the door without waiting for an answer.

"Thirty-two minutes. Close enough."

Marcus looked up from his computer, and she could see the excitement in his eyes. He was forty-something, graying at the temples, and he'd been chasing big stories since before she was born. When Marcus got excited, it meant something huge was