The café was tucked away in a quiet corner of Georgetown—neutral ground, far from the courthouses and law firms where both of them had built their reputations. Miranda arrived early, as she always did, and chose a table in the back where she could see the door. Old habits. The habits of a woman who had learned never to be caught off guard.She ordered a coffee she didn't drink and waited.The door opened. Clifford Hills walked in.He was taller than she remembered—or maybe she had just forgotten. His hair was graying at the temples, his face more lined, but his eyes were the same. Warm. Uncertain. Searching the room until they found her.He crossed to the table. "Miranda.""Clifford."He sat down across from her. The waiter appeared. Clifford ordered black coffee, the same as her. Some things hadn't changed.They sat in silence for a long moment, both of them unsure where to start."You look well," Clifford finally said."Don't," Miranda said. "Don't pretend this is a social call."Cl

Andre couldn't stop thinking about the pendant as he held it up that same night, turning it over in his hands, feeling its strange warmth against his palm. It called to him in ways he couldn't explain—like a voice just out of reach, like a memory that wasn't his.His mother had told him about the daughters, about the Obsidian, about the darkness. She had given him the truth, as much as she knew. But she didn't have all the answers. But Wilfreda did. Wilfreda had worn a pendant just like this one. Wilfreda had spoken at his summer classes about folklore and mythology and things that felt more real than history books.Wilfreda knew.And so, the following morning, Andre made a decision. He packed his bag for school—textbooks, laptop, the usual—but instead of heading to ESU, he took a cab across town.The cab pulled up in front of O'Connor Holdings, and Andre stood outside for a long moment, his heart pounding.You can still walk away, a voice whispered. Go to class. Pretend none of thi

The first threat came three days later.Andre was walking home from training, with his mind so lost in thought that he didn't notice the car until it pulled up beside him.The window rolled down. A man with cold eyes and a colder smile looked out. His face was gaunt, his skin pale, his teeth too white. He looked like someone who had spent too long in the dark."Your mother made a mistake," he said. "She chose the wrong side. You have a chance to make it right."Andre's hand instinctively went still. "I don't know what you're talking about."The man laughed—a dry, rattling sound. "Of course you don't. But you will. Tell your mother to reconsider. Or else.""Or else what?"The man's smile widened. "You're a smart boy. Figure it out."The car sped off, its taillights disappearing around the corner.Andre stood frozen for a moment, his heart pounding. Then he ran.***He burst through the apartment door, gasping for breath. Miranda was at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in her hand, a law

Wilfreda crossed to Miranda, her eyes falling on the photographs, the note. Her expression grew grim as she studied each image, the gates, the guard rotations, the secure wing where Andre was staying. Photographs of the family gathered in the library. Photographs of Chance, Julia, herself, and even Andre, taken from a distance, through windows, without permission."He's been feeding them detailed information," Wilfreda said, her voice low and tight. "They know everything—the guard rotations, the secure wing, the times when the family is most vulnerable. They've been planning this for weeks."Miranda's hands shook as she clutched the evidence. Her knuckles were white, her breath shallow. "They were planning to take Andre. Tonight. They were going to take my son."Wilfreda placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. Her touch was warm, grounding. "But they didn't. Because we found this in time. We can stop them."Miranda looked up, her eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and fear. The pen