Chance stood at the French windows of the west corridor, his mind replaying the chaos of the night before, the lightning strike, the panicked guests, and the storm that had raged like a curse. He was still in his thoughts when his eyes caught sight of the trash bin that was just outside on the courtyard. The heavy trash bin had been blown over by the gale, its lid rolling across the flagstones, contents scattered. His pulse quickened as realization hit him like ice water. The bullet. The sniper’s bullet he had once dug out of his own arm, the night his mother had nearly been assassinated. He had discarded it himself, wrapping and hiding it among the trash so no one would find it, so no investigator could link it back to him. And now the bin was overturned, its contents spilled, and the bullet was gone. His breath came fast and shallow, his throat dry as he stumbled out into the courtyard. His eyes locked on the upturned trash bin, the scene twisting in his vision like some cruel jo

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of Chance’s laptop. He had been at it for hours—digging, cross-referencing, running through databases that only a handful of people in New York even knew how to access.The name Stannis Holdings had come up again and again, each time like a ghost whispering from the shadows. It was a company that technically existed, yet didn’t—not in the way ordinary corporations did. Its records were sealed behind layers of legal firewalls. Every attempt to pierce through had led to locked doors, restricted archives, or dead ends that had been scrubbed clean years ago.But Chance was patient. And when patience wasn’t enough, he was resourceful.There was something about the Stannins' holdings that was just so unsettling in its own way. The fact that they had just come out of no where to bid for Acherlands with an outrageous bid was more than enough reason for him to feel that there was something playing in the shadows that was more thank just a business r

The café was quiet, tucked away on a narrow street, the kind of place most people passed without even noticing. Old jazz played faintly from a corner speaker, just enough to fill the silence without intruding.Chloe stepped inside, letting her eyes adjust. The place was nearly empty, save for a barista behind the counter and a couple whispering near the window. It was exactly the kind of place Chance would choose—private, discreet, a safe pocket of calm away from the storm of pryers.Her face lit up with a smile the moment she spotted him.Chance sat near the back, at a corner table where the shadows stretched just enough to keep him out of easy view. He was seated with his back straight, one arm resting on the table, the other curled loosely around a cup of untouched coffee. His eyes weren’t on the drink, though. They were distant, locked on the small swirl of candlelight in the center of the table, as if searching for answers in the flame.He looked different. Tired, though not in

“Perfect,” Wilfreda muttered, leaning back against the headrest of her. Of all the places her car could have chosen to break down, it had to be in the middle of absolutely no where. The least Wilfreda could have wanted to happen on this day was to be stranded in the middle of no where after a very long day at School."Just when I thought I had seen the worst for the day..." She breathed out in anger, her eyes scanning the road ahead of and behind her.The silence around her was deafening, broken only by the occasional chirp of crickets from the tall grass that bordered the deserted road.She reached for her phone, but the screen mocked her with a single bar of reception. No network. No calls. No lifeline.Wilfreda sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. She had left campus later than usual and had already been tired from a long day. Now, stranded in the middle of nowhere, she felt the weight of helplessness pressing in.For a fleeting moment, panic threatened to r

For a long, tense moment, Wilfreda stood frozen in the study, the papers still trembling in her hands. The words stared back at her—statistics, percentages, medical jargon—but what they really said was far simpler:Steven O’Connor was her father.And her mother could not deny it any further.The quiet between them stretched unbearably, broken only by the faint ticking of the ornate clock on the wall. Finally, Wilfreda’s lips parted, her voice raw, thick with emotion.“That’s it?” she whispered. “That’s all you’re going to say?”Helsin had straightened now, her shoulders squared, her expression unreadable. “You wanted proof. Now you have it. What else is there to say?”Wilfreda’s chest tightened. Her hands dropped the papers onto the desk with a sharp slap. She turned away, pacing, her footsteps restless and unsteady. “What else? Don’t you dare say that to me, Mother. Don’t you dare!” She spun back, eyes glistening, fury warring with pain. “You let me live my entire life wondering—que