Steven didn’t turn, didn’t slow down, he didn’t even speak. He walked past her as if she were air. As if the word mother meant nothing at all. Cameras captured everything. Sarah’s gasp. Her near fall. Steven’s unbroken stride. Inside the mansion, Helen covered her mouth in horror. Harry’s face went ashen. Jackson stared, frozen, a cold dread crawling up his spine. Steven entered the house looking calm and collected. The door closed behind him with a soft, final sound. And in that moment, every person present understood the same terrifying truth... Steven Kahuna hadn’t come to reconcile. He had come to shake the foundation. Outside the Milton estate, the gates might as well have been walls to another world. The reporters never stopped recording. They just couldn’t possibly. Cameras followed every movement, every fraction of expression they could steal from behind iron bars and manicured hedges. What they saw was limited—but what they imagined filled

Steven Kahuna returned home the same way he had left the Milton mansion—without haste, without hesitation, without looking back. The convoy moved smoothly through Riverage City, the noise of speculation trailing behind it like distant thunder. Inside the car, the city lights slid across the tinted windows, briefly illuminating Steven’s face before vanishing again. His expression never changed. He rested his arm against the door, fingers relaxed, posture unguarded. Anyone watching closely would have noticed something unsettling—this was not the demeanor of a man who had just confronted his past. It was the composure of someone who had already buried it. By the time the Kahuna residence came into view, the city’s chaos felt far away. The gates opened automatically, recognizing the convoy long before it reached them. Guards straightened in unison, eyes sharp, movements precise. Steven stepped out… the house greeted him with silence not the suffocating kind, but the

Sarah hovered near the doorway, wringing her hands. She had barely slept, her thoughts swinging violently between guilt and fear. Every instinct told her to protect Jackson, she always had but now that instinct felt like poison. Helen sat on the stairs, arms crossed, watching the spectacle with cold disbelief. “You’re still trying to outsmart him,” she said suddenly. All eyes turned to her. Helen stood. “That’s what got you here in the first place.” Jackson rounded on her. “You think confessing is better?” “I think lying got Steven thrown into jail,” Helen replied. “And almost killed.” Sarah’s voice cracked. “Please… stop.” Helen didn’t. “This isn’t a strategy problem, Jackson. It’s a truth problem.” Jackson turned away, breathing hard. “Truth doesn’t protect people like me.” Harry entered quietly then, his presence heavy. “Everyone out,” he said. The consultants hesitated because the issue on ground wasn't one they could just simply be dismissed for. “I

The television volume was still too loud, Sarah Milton didn’t bother lowering it. Jackson’s voice echoed through the living room again clean, undeniable, stripped of all the charm he had worn on air just hours earlier. “…If he survives, finish it.” Sarah turned slowly, very slowly. Jackson was still sitting where he had collapsed, phone dangling loosely from his fingers, face drained of all color. For the first time in his life, he looked small and Sarah Milton saw it. She laughed out loud, sharp and broken. There was nothing like amusement. “So this is what we raised,” she said. Jackson looked up. “Mother…” “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. The word mother seemed to strike something deep inside her. Her hands trembled, not with fear but with rage. “All these years,” Sarah continued, voice rising, “all these years I defended you, covered for you, cleaned up after you.” She stepped closer. “I stood in front of rooms full of men and women and said my son would

Steven was very much calm, he was just waiting patiently to see how it would all play out. Meanwhile, Sarah Milton woke to silence so thick it felt accusatory. The house had always breathed with her—staff moving quietly, the low hum of control. Now, it felt hollow and judgmental, like even the walls were waiting for her to explain herself. She sat upright on the couch, robe loosely wrapped around her frame, eyes fixed on the muted television. Jackson’s face filled the screen again. Her son. Her hands trembled as she pressed them together. “I raised you,” she whispered, the words cracking. “I raised you better than this.” Footsteps approached and Helen stopped a few feet away. She didn’t rush towards her like she usually does whenever she was down. Sarah noticed that first and it hurt more than the headlines. “You should be at the company,” Sarah said hoarsely, eyes still on the screen. “I was,” Helen replied. “I came back because you’ve been alone all day.” Sarah laughe