Sarah Milton stared at the blinking arrow on her laptop screen as though it were judging her. The room was quiet—too quiet for a mansion that once rang with laughter, arguments, footsteps and life. Now, all that existed was the low hum of the air conditioner and the sound of her own breathing, uneven and restrained. Harry Milton stood behind her, hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid. A man who once commanded boardrooms and crushed opponents without hesitation now looked uncertain almost fragile. “Don’t write yet,” Harry said finally, breaking the silence. Sarah’s fingers froze above the keyboard. “I haven’t.” “I know.” He exhaled slowly. “I just… every word matters.” She leaned back in her chair and looked up at him, her eyes glossy but sharp. “He’s our son, Harry. Not a hostile takeover.” His jaw tightened at the word son. Steven, a name that carried both pride and guilt in equal measure. “Yes,” Harry said quietly. “Which is exactly why we can’t afford to do th

Riverage City did not wake up curious, instead it woke up ravenous. “Wait… run it again, this time… slower.” The producer’s command cracked through the studio, and on the giant screen, the footage rewound. Jackson Milton stumbled into the frame. His tie hung loose, shirt half-untucked, eyes glassy, pupils unfocused. The streetlights washed him in a sickly yellow glow as he swayed, one hand bracing against a car door that was his. Then his voice raw, slurred and desperate. “I didn’t do it… I swear… I didn’t…” The clip cut. The female anchor didn’t hide her expression this time. She let it linger just long enough. “Those words,” she said slowly, “have ignited questions the Milton family buried years ago.” Her co-host leaned in. “Buried badly.” “I believe there is more to this than what meets the eye since the Milton's are so determined to keep this embarrassing moment in wraps.” “Well it's time to leak it.” The producer said with a smirk. ***** Across River

Peace had settled into Finn Guler’s mansion like a gentle promise, it was filled with soft laughter, the distant hum of the fountain outside, the quiet padding of a child trying to stand on his little feet across polished floors. “Papa…” Leo’s small voice rang out as he tried to walk but crawled instead toward the couch, toy car clutched in his hand. Finn smiled genuinely this time. “Ah, so you finally fixed it,” he said, opening his arms. “Come here, my boy.” Leo climbed onto his lap without hesitation. Diana watched them from across the room, a faint smile touching her lips for the first time in days. Her shoulders were finally relaxed. No cameras. No whispers. No questions disguised as concern. Just home. “You can stay as long as you want,” Finn said quietly, as if reading her thoughts. “This house is yours. Always.” Diana nodded. “I know, Papa.” From the doorway, Jedro observed everything, his arms folded, jaw tight, eyes sharp. He hadn’t smiled since Diana

Minutes dragged like hours. When the door finally opened, Jackson walked in looking unkempt... tie loosened, eyes rimmed red, his posture tense but controlled. He looked from his father to his mother, already defensive. “You summoned me like a criminal,” he said quietly. “What’s going on?” Sarah stood directly in front of him. “What did you tell Diana?” Jackson’s jaw tightened. “Nothing.” Harry’s voice cut through. “Jackson.” Jackson looked at his father. “I didn’t touch her. I never hurt her.” Sarah waved that away. “That’s not what we’re asking.” Jackson frowned. “Then what?” Harry stepped forward. “Diana believes you know something about Steven’s disappearance.” The room stopped breathing. Jackson’s face drained of color. “She told you?” he asked slowly. Sarah’s heart dropped. “So it’s true.” Jackson laughed weakly. “You’re twisting things.” Harry’s voice hardened. “Jackson, look at me.” Jackson did. Harry swallowed. “Did you tell your wife something you never tol

Steven hadn’t come with rage, that was the worst part, just silence. And silence meant calculation. Romero stood, pacing. “If I tell him the truth… if I admit my men were involved…” His steps slowed. “…will he kill me?” The question hung heavy in his chest. He imagined Steven’s eyes… calm, cold, unreadable. A man who didn’t need to raise his voice to destroy someone. Romero swallowed. “But if I don’t tell him,” he whispered, “he’ll find out anyway.” A sharp knock this time, it was firmer. Romero’s breath hitched. “Who is it?” “A message, sir,” a voice replied. “From Steven Kahuna.” Romero felt his chest tighten. “Read it.” The door opened just enough for the lieutenant to speak. “Mr. Romero of the venom Triad… We need to talk. You have information that belongs to me. I don’t enjoy repeating myself.” That was all, no threats, no deadlines. Romero sank back into his chair. “He knows,” he breathed. “Or he suspects enough that it doesn’t matter.” His mind