We're still investigating. But it had to be an inside job. Someone disabled the CCTV cameras, unlocked the doors, and created a window. This was planned, Chance. It was planned carefully."Chance closed his eyes, images flashing through his mind."Where is he now?" Chance asked."We don't know. State police have roadblocks up, but he had hours of head start. He could be anywhere. We're tracking every lead, but—" Gerald paused. "I'm sorry, Chance. We failed."Chance wanted to be angry. Wanted to scream, to demand answers, to hold someone accountable. But what good would that do? Gerald had been the one person who had been there since the whole O' Connor saga began. The failure wasn't Gerald's—it was the system's. The system Robert had somehow found a way to exploit."Keep me updated," Chance said quietly. "Anything.""Of course. And Chance—" Gerald hesitated. "Watch your back. Robert has nothing left to lose. That makes him dangerous."The line went dead.Chance sat motionless, the pho

The waiter appeared, a young man with an impressive mustache and a practiced smile. "Welcome to Le Petit Four. Can I start you with something to drink?"Janelle ordered a cappuccino. Marcus asked for a black coffee and a recommendation on the pastries. The waiter suggested their almond croissant and a seasonal fruit tart, and Marcus nodded enthusiastically."Both," he said. "We'll share."When the waiter departed, Janelle raised an eyebrow. "Bold move, ordering for both of us."Marcus shrugged, unapologetic. "I believe in sharing. Life's too short to hoard the good stuff." He leaned forward, his eyes warm. "So, tell me something about yourself that isn't in your profile."Janelle considered the question. Her profile was carefully curated—interests, hobbies, a few carefully chosen photos from before everything fell apart. It revealed nothing about her real life, her real history, the real woman sitting across from him."I'm learning to be brave," she said finally. "I spent a long time

The photograph remained pressed against her chest long after the call ended. Dana's eyes were closed, but sleep wouldn't come. It never did when the memories surfaced.She was fourteen when they found her.The orphanage sat on the outskirts of a city that no longer exists on modern maps—a grim, gray building where children learned quickly that survival meant invisibility. Dana had been there since she was five, her parents killed in the ethnic conflicts that had torn her country apart. She didn't remember their faces anymore. She barely remembered her own name before the orphanage gave her a new one.But she remembered the day the men came.They wore dark suits, out of place in the crumbling facility. The orphanage director, a woman who doled out beatings like rations, was suddenly obsequious, bowing and scraping as she led them through the halls. Dana watched from the stairwell, her thin arms wrapped around her knees, making herself small.One of the men noticed her anyway.His eyes

The O'Connor estate hummed with quiet activity in the days leading up to Julia and Philip's twentieth wedding anniversary celebration. It was a milestone that none of them had expected to reach—twenty years of marriage that had survived betrayals, separations, reconciliations, and the complex web of relationships that defined their family.Chance had thrown himself into the preparations with characteristic thoroughness. Guest lists, catering, security arrangements—every detail passed through his hands. It was a welcome distraction from the weight of other concerns: Robert still at large, Christopher's machinations from prison, the ongoing hunt for Dana Voss.Chloe watched him work from the doorway of his study, a small smile playing on her lips. "You know, most people hire event planners for this."Chance looked up, blinking as if emerging from deep water. "I like to be involved.""I know." She crossed the room and kissed his forehead. "But you also need to delegate. Let others help

The car finally pulled into the long driveway of the O'Connor estate as the last light of day was fading into twilight. The mansion ahead was still alive with activities of earlier—caterers carrying trays, florists arranging elaborate centerpieces, staff rushing about with last-minute preparations for Julia and Philip's anniversary celebration.Harry barely noticed any of it. He sat in the back seat, still pale, still hollow-eyed from the news about Helsin. Wilfreda held his hand, a lifeline in the storm of his grief. Sparrow drove in silence, his face unreadable. Priya had already begun texting updates to Flynn.As they parked near the main entrance, Chance emerged from the house, a clipboard in one hand, his phone pressed to his ear with the other. He was mid-conversation, gesturing emphatically about something, probably the placement of the floral arrangements or the timing of the speeches.Then he saw Harry.The phone dropped from his ear. The clipboard hung forgotten at his side