The stall door rattled again. Mathew pressed himself against the cold tile wall, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. His phone was gone, lost to the depths of the toilet bowl, its screen dark, its connection to Sable severed. He had no weapon. No backup. No way to call for help. And Damien Silvercrest was standing on the other side of the door. "I know you're in there," Damien said, his voice pleasant but cold. "The feet rather give it away." Mathew's mind raced. He couldn't fight. He couldn't run. He couldn't hide. But he could lie. He slumped against the wall, letting his body go slack, and forced his voice into a slurred, drunken mumble. "Go 'way. Occupied." The stall door rattled again. "Open the door." "Can't. Busy. Too much... too much whiskey." Mathew made a retching sound, hoping it sounded convincing. "The gala. Too many toasts. Bad idea." There was a pause. Mathew could picture Damien on the other side, his cold eyes narrowing, his mind

The Grand Metropolitan Hotel's grand ballroom had been transformed overnight. The gala decorations, the crystal centerpieces, the silk drapery, the champagne towers, had been cleared away. In their place stood a simple podium, flanked by massive screens that dominated the far wall. Rows of chairs had been arranged for the press, and every seat was filled. Cameras lined the back of the room, their lenses gleaming like the eyes of predators. Microphones clustered on the podium, waiting. Ethan Silvercrest stood at the center of it all. He was dressed simply, a dark suit, a white shirt, no tie. His face was calm, but his eyes burned with a cold, patient fury. Beside him stood Sable Cross, her hand resting on her holstered weapon, her gray eyes scanning the crowd. And on his other side, leaning on a cane but standing tall, was Donald Steflon. Donald had insisted on being here. "I've served this family for forty years," he had said when Ethan tried to dissuade him. "I will not miss th

The Board chamber was silent. The twelve Elders sat in their tiered seats, their faces grim, their dark robes pooling around them like shadows made solid. The stained-glass windows filtered the morning light into fractured patterns of red and gold, casting the room in the colors of blood and judgment. The air was thick with tension, the kind that preceded executions. Damien Silvercrest stood in the center of the chamber. His posture was defiant. His chin was raised. His eyes burned with a mixture of fury and fear. He had dressed carefully for this moment, a dark suit, a silk tie, the Silvercrest crest pin gleaming on his lapel. He looked every inch the heir he had always believed himself to be. But the Elders were not fooled. Lord Marcus Silvercrest presided from the head of the chamber, his expression unreadable. He had not spoken to Damien since the night before. He had not looked at him. He had simply summoned him to the chamber and taken his seat, waiting for the judgment

The café was tucked away on a quiet side street near the Silvercrest University campus, a small, unassuming place with mismatched furniture, a vintage espresso machine, and the kind of warm, buttery light that made everything feel softer. It had become their unofficial headquarters over the past few weeks, the place where they retreated after long days of testifying before the Board, reviewing evidence, and dodging the paparazzi that still lingered outside the Sinclair Media building. Mathew Delgado sat in his usual corner booth, his laptop open, a half-empty cup of coffee growing cold beside him. Across from him, Lena Park was typing furiously, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She was dressed casually, a sweater, jeans, no makeup, but she still looked like the sharpest person in the room. "You're staring," she said without looking up. "I'm admiring," Mathew corrected. "Same thing." But she smiled, a small, private e

The Silvercrest Museum of Art had been transformed into a cathedral of elegance. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings like frozen constellations, their light cascading over marble floors polished to a mirror shine. The walls, lined with masterpieces from the Silvercrest collection, Renaissance portraits, Impressionist landscapes, modern abstracts, seemed to glow with an inner warmth. The city's elite mingled in clusters, their laughter rising and falling like music, their designer gowns and tailored suits a testament to the wealth and power that defined their world. Amelia stood near the central display, a newly acquired sculpture by a celebrated Italian artist, and felt, for the first time in weeks, a sense of peace. The past few months had been a nightmare. The smear campaign. The kidnapping. The assassination attempt. The constant, gnawing fear that someone, somewhere, was waiting to strike. But tonight was different. Tonight was about art, about philanthropy, abo