The last of the glasses clinked. Music hummed low and sweet as the final guests drifted out into the soft night, laughter echoing down the stone drive of the grand house. Inside, Julia had slipped away to a private corner with her chief of staff, voice low with the first quiet plans of a new presidency already taking shape.Chance found himself leaning against a marble pillar near the foyer, his tie loosened, his sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. The champagne buzz had faded; what lingered was the memory of the speech, his mother’s eyes shimmering with fierce pride—Who reminded me that our family’s name is not a ruin—it’s a rebirth.When Julia returned to his side, she was no longer the president-elect in that moment but just his mother again, lines soft around her smile as she brushed a thumb against his smooth face.“She’s waiting by the doors,” Julia said gently, tilting her head toward the open entryway. “Be a gentleman and see her off properly, will you?”Chance didn’t need

Chance followed Julia down the back hall, past her old study, and to a door he’d always thought led to nothing but dusty storage. Tonight, she paused there, her hand hovering on the handle as if the weight of what lay beyond pressed against her palm.“Are you sure you want this tonight?” she asked, not quite turning to look at him. Her voice sounded softer than the silk robe brushing her ankles. “There’s no turning back when you see it. Or when it sees you.”Chance’s jaw tightened. He didn’t flinch. “As long as it's not something that's gonna kill me, I'm ready. I understand that you kept the ring from me to protect me but I’m done being protected.”Julia’s lips curved into something that was almost a smile—too weary to reach her eyes. She pushed the door open.Inside was a narrow stone stairwell, old enough that Chance could smell the cold earth. She lifted an old lantern from a peg—its flame flickered as she passed it to him.“Stay close. The generator’s never reached down here,” she

Morning broke sharp and gray, the kind of dawn that dripped bad headlines from every branch outside the estate’s frosted windows. Cold mist clung to the hedges like breath that wouldn’t leave, and the security lights that lined the driveway flickered under the weight of the coming stormInside, the air buzzed with staff members shuffling fast on soft soles, the scent of burnt coffee and paper ink mixing with the hush of hurried whispers. Radios crackled from belt clips at every door, stitching together stray fragments of chatter from DC—snippets of lawyers’ voices, a governor’s demand for calm, a news anchor repeating the same rumor in a different pitch.The once-celebratory warmth that had filled these halls only hours ago was gone, replaced by something tauter than fear—resolve, maybe, but frayed at the edges. New security details stood braced at every hallway intersection, dark suits and colder eyes, radios clipped to lapels, fingers ghosting near earpieces as they listened for the

“Tell me what Norville paid you to do,” Chance hissed, his breath ragged. He could feel the Mark burning against his wrist—truth sparking behind his eyes like lightning ready to strike.The urge to hit the clerk hard came strongly upon him but he knew he had to resist it.The clerk shook his head violently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know anything—”Chance’s grip tightened in the man’s wrinkled shirt. He leaned in, voice low but lethal. “You were about to talk. Don’t lie to me now.”The clerk’s eyes darted past Chance’s shoulder, pupils shrinking as dread poured back into his veins. His mouth opened—words right there, a name, a number, something.And then came a screech like rubber on a pavement.A black SUV slid into the mouth of the alley, windows tinted to perfect black. For a heartbeat it just sat there with the engine growling and the exhaust ghosting into the stale midday air.Chance turned halfway, eyes narrowing. “What the—”The back window lowered in one

Philip stood beneath the high vaulted ceiling of the O' Connor executive board room, placing the battered marriage certificate on the table.“It’s ready,” he said simply.Harold Strickland leaned forward, eyes narrowed through half-moon glasses. “You’re certain this can’t be challenged?”Philip didn’t flinch. “It’s genuine, and by that, it means we now have what we need to shut down every whisper.”Roland Kwan exhaled, tapping the edge of the paper with an ink-stained finger. “And you expect us to believe in all of these? How can we be so sure that this isn't some forged document?”Before Philip could answer, Louise Becker spoke up. She hadn’t touched the paper yet. Her steady eyes were fixed on Philip’s face, her voice low but clear.“We demanded for a proof, and now that they have one, why aren't we being fair to verify rather than just write it off as fake?” she said, soft but sharp enough to drive home her point. She looked at Harold and Roland, her expression unyielding. “We all