Senator Walter Norville, the archrival to Julia and major contender for the seat of the presidency stood at the head of a long table in the private backroom of St. Graven’s Gentlemen’s Club, a place where policies were whispered over cognac and careers were buried beneath handshakes.Tonight, the lights were dimmed to a golden hue. Velvet curtains shut out the world. Three men sat around the table—each one bearing secrets, scars, and a burning interest in the downfall of Julia.Norville straightened his navy-blue tie and looked across the table at Roney Bashan and next to him, sipping slowly from a tumbler of whiskey, was Ezekiel Tann, whose eyes gleamed with the hunger of a man clawing for relevance.Norville tapped his fingers against the table before finally speaking.“She’s gaining momentum,” he said. “Polls show Julia Banks is three points ahead of me as of this morning.”“And you expected anything less?” Roney scoffed, leaning back. “The woman’s a machine. Between her speeches a

It started before sunrise—first as a ripple, then a tide that broke over Julia’s campaign headquarters like a hurricane crashing through glass.By dawn, a barricade of news vans lined the narrow street in front of the brick-and-glass campaign building on Madison Avenue. Camera crews huddled beneath umbrellas as the morning drizzle turned to sheets of cold rain, but not a single lens wavered from the doors. Boom mics jutted toward the awning. Reporters barked into cameras. Commentators and gossip bloggers alike streamed their hot takes from folding chairs and cheap ring lights perched under pop-up tents.Inside the building, it felt like a dam about to burst.Julia sat at the head of the massive conference table, its glossy surface buried under a mountain of printed headlines that grew more absurd by the hour.Her comms director, Marie Denning—usually the calmest head in any crisis—was pale as paper now, her voice hoarse from marathon phone calls to sympathetic outlets, legal teams, a

The primetime slot was perfectly chosen—just past 10 p.m., when every major channel had its eyes locked on the night’s biggest political theatre. The studio lights glared off the polished desk where Senator Norville sat ready to tear Julia apart one more time—a final blow to seal her political fate once and for all.At the very edge of the darkened stage, like a ghost with too much power, stood Roney Bashan—barely visible but unmistakably present.“…In three, two, one—”The red ON AIR sign glowed.Norville turned that smile straight into America’s living rooms. The host—a young journalist trying too hard to look neutral—gave him the opening with a soft pitch:“Senator Norville, the nation’s watching closely. Julia Banks just won her primary by an unexpected landslide. But the last seventy-two hours have cast new shadows on her candidacy—rumors of hidden truths about her family, a so-called illegitimate heir… Are you calling for her to drop out?”Norville gave a small, practiced chuckl

The drive through the Tuscan countryside should have been beautiful—sunlight dancing over rolling hills, vineyards stretching into the horizon like neat green waves, ancient stone churches perched on hilltops like guardians of old secrets. But for Chance, every mile felt like another tightening coil in his chest.He didn't know what to expect when they finally get to meet Father Carlo. But all he could just wish for was for the old man to remember the wedding between his parents and still have the evidences that they truly got married according to the law and their religious beliefs.He was doing all he could to make his mother overcome this hurdle in her political career and to save his name as a true heir to the O'Connor's before finally showing himself to the rest of the executives because with the scandal, everything had been put on hold.Gary sat beside him in the car, maps and scribbled addresses spread out on his lap. His phone buzzed with updates from the private investigator

Inside an altar, a young priest knelt in prayer—a man probably only a few years older than Chance himself, his brown hair tucked neatly behind his ears, a slim collar peeking from his simple black cassock.When the priest heard the soft creak of the door, he rose and turned, his expression warm and welcoming in the timeless way of those who’d dedicated their lives to shepherding strangers.“Buonasera, figli miei,” he greeted, slipping easily into English when he saw the hesitation on Chance's and Gary's face. “How can I help you?”Chance stepped forward, feeling the weight of every mile they’d crossed to get here. He gestured to Gary to stand beside him, then cleared his throat. “Father… my name is Chance Franklin. This is my brother, Gary Banks. We… we’re here because we need your help. And your archives.”The priest tilted his head, listening.Chance went on, voice careful but firm. “Years ago, my parents—Julia Franklin and Steven O’Connor—were married here. In this parish, by Fathe