Damien pov
The last photograph was different from the others. It was taken from across the street — a long shot, slightly grainy — of me on the penthouse terrace two days ago, standing at the railing. Looking out at the city.
I'd thought I was alone.
There was a note, typed, four words:
One last family lesson.
I put the photographs back in the envelope and stood very still at the kitchen counter for a few seconds, doing the specific arithmetic of a situation that had moved from probable to active.
Charles Monroe. Who had stood in the shadow at our wedding and watched. Who had fled his address before Barnes could move on him. Who had spent years treating his daughters as financial instruments and was now watching his leverage evaporate in real time — the company Aria had acquired, the public humiliation, the court of opinion that had shifted decisively against him. This was a man with nothing left to lose inventing one final move.
