Rachael's POVI sign the final bankruptcy documents with a hand that will not stop shaking, each signature feeling like a small death that I'm forced to witness and participate in. The lawyer's office is silent except for the scratch of pen on paper, the sound unnaturally loud in the suffocating quiet that presses down on me like physical weight. My company, my reputation, my future, all reduced to legal formalities and creditor claims that turn everything I built into numbers on spreadsheets. Everything I constructed over three years dismantled in less than a month, crumbling so fast I couldn't even slow it down, much less stop it.The lawyer offers sympathy that means nothing to either of us, sliding each document across his desk with detachment that makes it clear this is routine for him. "Just sign here, and here, and initial at the bottom of each page," he instructs in that monotone voice people use when they've said the same words a thousand times.I think about how quickly ever

John's POVI spend the morning after Thomas's discovery making calls to ensure Ariel's safety, my phone pressed to my ear as I pace the library floor in circles that probably drew inself into the expensive carpet. First I contact a private security firm Lawrence recommends, someone he worked with years ago and trusts. "I need discrete protection for someone," I explain to the consultant who answers, a woman with a crisp voice. "They can't know they're being guarded unless an actual threat pops up. Can you do that?""Absolutely. We specialize in those kinds of protection." She asks about the threat level, the timeline, the specific vulnerabilities we're concerned about, and I answer each question as honestly as I can without revealing too much about the Syndicate.She quotes prices that would have been impossible weeks ago but are manageable now with the resources from helping the Armstrong family. I authorize two-person rotating shifts to begin immediately, emphasizing that they must

John's POVThe next day passes slowly, almost too quietly after the tension of yesterday's revelation about the kidnapping threat. I wake early from restless sleep filled with fragmented dreams I can't quite remember, only the lingering unease they leave behind like a bad taste in my mouth. Morning training doesn't clear my head the way it usually does, doesn't give me that centered focus I rely on. I go through the motions because I have to, my body executing forms while my mind wanders to worst-case scenarios and contingency plans that get increasingly paranoid and elaborate.Lawrence finds me in the gym an hour past my normal session, still pushing through exercises that stopped being productive about 40 minutes ago. I'm dripping sweat and my muscles are screaming but I can't seem to stop moving."You know you're overtraining," he says from the doorway, not a question."I'm fine.""You're really not." He walks closer, his expression concerned. "Your body needs rest to maintain ener

John's POVThe gallery event continues without incident despite the surveillance Thomas identified, which honestly surprises me because I've been half-expecting someone to crash through a window or pull a gun. The evening flows pleasantly from viewing art I don't understand to networking with people whose names I'll forget by tomorrow to simply existing in Ariel's presence, which is the only part I actually give a shit about.I remain alert for any sign of Syndicate presence beyond passive observation, my eyes constantly scanning the crowd for threats while pretending to care about abstract expressionism or whatever the hell that painting with the random splashes is supposed to be. The security detail I hired maintains discrete positions throughout the gallery, their eyes constantly moving while they fake admiration for a sculpture that looks like someone welded random metal scraps together and called it art."Still nothing," Thomas says quietly through my earpiece. "Three watchers ma