“You’ve changed, Julia,” Adams said quietly. “You used to treat emotion like a liability.”Julia looked up at him, a faint, cold smile playing at the corner of her lips. “I still do. But I’ve also learned that some liabilities are worth protecting.”Adams nodded slowly. “Then I’ll handle Helsin. But understand this—if word of Wilfreda spreads, even I won’t be able to keep the vultures away."Julia’s fingers tightened around her glass. “Then make sure it never spreads.”For a long moment, neither of them spoke.Then, as if rehearsed by fate itself, Adams stood and extended his hand. Julia took it, firm and steady. Their eyes met—an unspoken understanding between two people who had built empires out of silence and secrets.“Goodnight, Julia,” Adams said.“Goodnight, Adams,” she replied.As she walked out, Marcus and the driver straightened immediately. She nodded to them, her face once again the perfect mask of control.Inside, though, her thoughts screamed.Wilfreda.The child Steven

Chance’s breath came steady but heavy, echoing faintly against the concrete walls as he bounded up another flight, all in an attempt to see who it was that was watching him. The emergency lights along the stairwell flickered, casting thin bands of red across the shadowed walls. The rhythmic sound of retreating footsteps above him grew faint, then suddenly stopped. He froze. His pulse quickened, every nerve on edge. Silence filled the space once again, thick, suffocating, and alive with the promise of danger. “Show yourself,” he ordered, his voice calm but firm. “You’ve got ten seconds before I stop being polite.” But even with the confrontation, there was still nothing. He ascended another few steps, slower this time, his eyes narrowing toward the dim landing above. The door to the rooftop access was slightly ajar, swinging lazily with the gust of air rushing through it. He pushed it open with his shoulder. Cold night air met him instantly, sharp against his skin. The city stret

Margaret’s hand trembled as she gripped the railing tighter, her knuckles whitening. Her breathing had grown shallow and uneven. The calm, measured woman Chloe had always known was unraveling before her eyes, replaced by someone terrified—someone cornered.John’s words hung in the air like smoke—heavy, choking, impossible to ignore. You’re in danger, Chloe. You and your mother both.Chloe’s heart hammered in her chest. She looked between them—her mother rigid and pale, her father standing in the doorway like a ghost reborn, desperation etched into every line of his face. “Mom,” she said carefully, stepping forward, “please, what’s going on? What is he talking about?”But Margaret didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed locked on John, wide and wild, like she was staring at something she’d spent fifteen years trying to forget.“Margaret,” John said quietly, taking a single step forward. “Please. Just let me explain.”“Explain?” Margaret snapped, her voice trembling so hard it barely carried.

“Stannis…” Chloe whispered. The name sent a jolt through her. She had been fighting so hard to doubt her father all the while he was referring to the Stannins just before her mother collapsed.But now that she had seen this particular picture, all elements of doubt had slowly disappeared.Her mind spun, flipping through every memory, if there was anything that could at least remind her that this picture was actually taken when she was still a child, one old enough to remember if something like this had actually happened, but nothing was coming to her mind.Had they all known each other? Worked together?And why was her father’s disappearance dated two years after this photo was taken — after he had apparently met with the O’Connors and the Stannis twins?She set the photo aside and picked up the folded letter.The handwriting was undeniably her father’s — neat, steady, but faintly slanted, like a man writing in haste but still clinging to precision.Her hands shook as she began to rea

The rain hadn’t stopped since the night at Riverside. It came down in slow, heavy sheets—thick enough to blur the edges of everything, soft enough to sound like grief itself.The cemetery was a small one, tucked behind a sloping hill, surrounded by ancient trees that bowed under the weight of the storm. Umbrellas dotted the gravesite, their dark canopies swaying gently in the wind like black petals caught in motion.Chloe stood at the front, her fingers tightening around the cold handle of her umbrella. The steady hiss of rain masked the sobs that came from her mother, Margaret, seated in a wheelchair beside her. Though still pale and weak from her recent ordeal, Margaret refused to miss the burial. This—saying goodbye to her husband—was something she needed to see through, no matter how fragile her body felt, not how messed up their relationship had been when he left.John’s casket gleamed under the rain, dark mahogany streaked with water. It looked almost alive, like the man himse