The Tuscan dawn broke clear and deceptively gentle, the golden glow of first light brushing the vineyard slopes and stone villages with an innocence that mocked what Chance and Gary found when they turned the corner to the parish grounds.Chance slammed the car door before the engine even quieted. The acrid bite of smoke hit him instantly, stinging his eyes and throat. Gary was already striding ahead, boots crunching over scattered ash on the path that led to what remained of the small vestry house behind the church.Or what used to be the vestry.It was now a blackened shell. Charred beams jutted out like broken ribs. A few of the dwellers lingered behind while old women in headscarves murmured prayers.At the foot of the scorched steps, the young priest from the night before stood alone, his cassock dusty with ash, eyes rimmed red not just from the smoke.Chance felt Gary’s hand on his shoulder but barely registered it. He stepped forward, the heat still rising off the blackened sto

In the conference suite at the top floor of the O’Connor Group’s oldest tower, twelve members of the executive board, comprising both men and women, sat around the massive oval table that once belonged to Steven O’Connor himself. No assistants were present—only a circle of executives who called themselves The Custodians. A circle that was supposed to guard the legacy, not play kingmaker behind closed doors. And yet, that was exactly what tonight was about.Following the news they had heard regarding Julia being a mistress to Steven and not his legally married wife, they had decided to meet to discuss the future of the Empire, which they had been a part of while Steven was still alive.At the head of the table sat Harold Strickland, the interim board chair since Steven’s death. His silver hair gleamed under the recessed lighting, his face carved from sixty years of deals and double-crosses that had made the O’Connor name both feared and revered.He tapped his pen on an inch-thick fold

Philip didn’t bother to let the echo of the boardroom door die behind him—he was already striding through the corridor, past the portraits of Steven O’Connor glaring down at him like silent judges, his mind a thunderstorm of unfinished battles.By the time he reached Julia’s campaign floor, he still hadn’t loosened up. He pushed through the glass doors so hard they shuddered on their hinges.Julia was already waiting when Philip slammed the door behind him—her silhouette rigid against the big campaign screen.One of the junior secretaries had called her minutes ago, voice trembling as she relayed everything that happened at the O'Connor board room to her.Philip’s sleeves were still rolled up from the boardroom when he walked into the campaign room. His hair was mussed in that careless way that used to make her trust him—once upon a time when trust had cost them less than this.“You went there,” Julia spat before he could speak, her voice so cold the room seemed to shrink around them.

Senator Norville’s suite at the Grand Arcadia was a battlefield disguised in velvet and glass. Tonight, it smelled of stale cigars and half-finished whiskey—victory humming beneath the hush.“Cheers,” Norville said, lifting the glass.Roney didn’t bother with the formality. He took his own pour straight from the crystal decanter, his smile thin and cruel. “To truth,” he drawled, his voice dripping with mock reverence.Norville barked a short laugh, tossing back half his drink in one practiced tilt. “Truth,” he echoed. “Funny word. She had the country in her palm—do you realize that? All those years building that pristine image. Iron backbone. The lady who, out of nothing, turned herself into steel. ” He twirled the glass, watching the amber swirl. “All undone by one matchstick.”Roney’s chuckle was colder. He tapped the rim of his glass against the window. Outside, camera crews still milled near Julia’s campaign HQ—tiny specks of hunger waiting for her next stumble. “You underestimate

It was late—so late that even the relentless hum of Julia’s campaign headquarters had dulled to a strained hush of unanswered phones and exhausted aides murmuring over half-empty coffee cups.By this time tomorrow, America would be lining up at polling stations from New Hampshire dawn to California dusk. Every field office was a bunker. Every staffer was running on stale pizza, caffeine, and the desperate hope that the next headline wouldn’t gut the numbers any further.Julia stood by the giant digital map in the nerve center—states blinking red, blue, and battleground gray under the harsh fluorescent lights. Every call mattered now. Every volunteer script. Every precinct captain cross-checking lists one more time.She should have felt crushed under the weight of it all. And maybe she would have—if not for the way the night before had cracked something open inside her.She could still feel the warmth of Philip’s hand tracing the curve of her shoulder in the dark, the way his voice had