The gala unfolded like a carefully rehearsed lie.
Crystal chandeliers. Silk gowns. Laughter that never reached the eyes.
Jacques moved through the crowd with practiced ease, the picture of refined power—but tonight, he stayed half a step behind Isabelle.
Deliberately.
Whispers followed her instead.
The poor girl.
Did you hear? She's been under his thumb for years.
So brave, standing here after everything…
Isabelle accepted every sympathetic glance with perfect restraint. A lowered gaze. A tremor in her hand. Just enough vulnerability to be convincing.
Across the city, Thomas struck the match.
The documents were delivered before midnight—anonymously, efficiently—to the right desks. Port authorities. Council members. A journalist who still believed in truth. Names surfaced. Numbers didn't add up. Patterns emerged.
By dawn, Jacques Moreau was no longer untouchable.
By noon, he was poison.
The council froze his estates.
Guards were reassigned.
Invitations vanished.
And right on schedule, outrage bloomed.
Jacques played his part impeccably.
He raged—publicly.
He denied—loudly.
He accused—desperately.
And then, at precisely the right moment, he collapsed.
Not physically.
Politically.
They removed him from his own house under the pretense of "protective custody." A dignified phrase for exile.
Isabelle watched from the upper balcony as he was escorted out.
Their eyes met.
Not fear.
Not betrayal.
Satisfaction.
Later, in the quiet that followed the storm, Isabelle stood before the council—dressed in mourning black, eyes red-rimmed, voice soft.
"I had no knowledge of my uncle's… dealings," she said. "I was as much a victim as anyone."
A pause. Perfectly timed.
"But I will ensure his estates are managed responsibly. Transparently. For the good of the city."
They agreed almost immediately.
She was young.
She was wronged.
She was convenient.
Power likes a clean narrative.
That evening, Mary arrived at the estate with Thomas.
The gates opened without resistance.
Inside, the house felt different—lighter, emptied of menace. Servants bowed to Isabelle now.
Mary ran to her sister the moment she saw her. "It's over," she breathed. "He's finished."
Isabelle embraced her tightly, pressing her face into Mary's shoulder.
"Yes," she whispered. "It's over."
Thomas stood back, relief etched deep into his posture. "My father," he said quietly. "He can finally rest."
Isabelle turned to him, eyes shining with something dangerously close to sincerity. "You did what he couldn't. You were very brave."
Thomas nodded, swallowing hard.
Neither of them noticed how Isabelle's fingers tightened—just for a moment—against Mary's back.
That night, alone in her new study, Isabelle opened a hidden drawer.
Inside lay documents the council would never see.
Routes rerouted.
Names replaced.
Profits redirected.
Project Black Tithe was intact.
Improved, even.
She poured herself a glass of wine and raised it to the dark window.
"To fools," she murmured softly. "And to family."
Far below, Mary slept believing she had saved her sister.
Thomas slept believing he had slain a dragon.
And Isabelle—now mistress of the estates, the ports, the quiet machinery beneath the city—smiled at the reflection of her own face.
The trap had closed perfectly.
Not with blood.
But with trust.
And the most dangerous reign of all had just begun.