The office smelled of oak polish and quiet threat. It wasn't Chloe's part of the consortium—all glass and ambient tech lighting—but her father's private domain, a shrine to control. Mahogany shelves framed walls heavy with trophies and oil portraits. The air felt older than her, older than anything she was allowed to touch.
William Halvern sat behind his desk like a man carved from command. His posture was perfect, his tailored suit pressed to military lines. The gray streaks in his hair only made him look sharper, not older. He wasn't just her father tonight—he was the Halvern name made flesh, and he was furious.
"Tell me," he began, voice low but lethal, "how your secretary drops dead in the middle of the day—our building, our cameras, our name plastered across every goddamn feed—and you don't know why."
The sound hit Chloe harder than a shout. She sat straight-backed across from him, her hands clenched in her lap. Her mouth was dry. "I don't, Dad," she managed, though her voice cracked halfway through.
William's stare narrowed, the lines around his mouth deepening. "You don't?"
Her fingers dug into her palms until she felt the sting of her nails. She wanted to tell him—about the voice that whispered through her headset hours before Kalisto's collapse, the childlike tone that laughed inside her skull and told her not to speak. But even as the thought formed, that same whisper curled through her mind again.
Shhh, Lolo. Don't ruin the fun.
Her breath shuddered. She said nothing.
William stood abruptly. The scrape of his chair echoed like thunder. He moved around the desk and gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You're becoming your mother," he hissed. "Too proud to see the knife aimed at your own throat."
Her jaw throbbed under his hand. "Dad, please—"
"Someone recorded it," he snapped, cutting her off. "Kalisto dropping dead at your desk. It's online. OSI's already sniffing around again, and they're convinced there's a leak inside our company. Do you understand what this means?"
Chloe's voice shook. "Kalisto had… issues. He was reckless sometimes. He—he could've—"
William's palm slammed onto the desk with a crack that made her flinch. "And you hired him anyway?" His voice rose with disbelief. "You think we can survive another scandal? After everything I built?"
That word—I—hung heavy in the air. Always I, never we.
Anger flickered through Chloe's tears. "You're one to talk," she said quietly, but the words sharpened as they came. "Half your friends are criminals wearing Rolexes. You drank champagne with Victoria Lockridge while she ran trafficking networks. You kept Otis Freeman close even when he was dealing Effexaine across the city. You call them partners. But Kalisto? He was my choice. And that's what this is really about—you hate that I chose someone you didn't approve."
The backhand came like lightning.
Pain burst across her cheek, blinding and hot. For a second, she couldn't breathe. Her father's hand hovered again, but another voice cut through the silence.
"Enough!"
Viola Halvern swept into the room like a gust of perfume and steel. Her heels struck the polished floor, her silk dress whispering with each step. She was at Chloe's side in an instant, pulling her daughter close. "William, what are you doing?" she demanded, her tone low but trembling with something that might have been rage or fear.
William glared at her, his chest rising and falling. For a long moment, no one moved. Then he turned, wordless, and left the room. The door slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the portraits on the walls.
Viola's arms stayed around Chloe, protective and desperate. "Sweetheart—"
"Don't." Chloe pushed her away, her voice raw. "Don't start acting like a mother now." She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, trembling. "You both only care when it's public. When it's about the name."
She stumbled past her and out the door.
Elijah was waiting in the corridor. Calm, pressed, unreadable. His gaze softened when he saw her face—red and streaked and crumpling. He didn't ask questions. He just opened his arms, and Chloe fell into them. He held her until her breathing slowed, until the shaking stopped.
Over her shoulder, Elijah's eyes met Viola's from across the doorway. For a split second, something wordless passed between them—something not quite anger, not quite guilt. Then he turned, guiding Chloe away.
The Gwagon's engine growled as it ate the road. The night outside was bruised violet, the city lights flickering in the distance like dying stars. Chloe leaned her forehead against the cold window, the heat from her father's slap still ghosting across her skin.
Elijah drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly against her knee—an anchor. "You sure about this?" he asked, voice steady but tense. "We don't even know what's waiting there."
Chloe's reflection looked hollow in the glass. "We don't have a choice. The message Aubrey sent—it wasn't a request."
He frowned. "Then what was it?"
Her voice dropped. "A threat." She hesitated, the words sticking in her throat. "Someone hacked my system earlier today. I heard voices—my uncle's, then my own when I was a kid. They said they could shut everything down. That they already had. And then they… they killed Kalisto. Just to prove they could."
Elijah's grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles went white. "Lucian Freeman," he muttered. "It has to be him."
Chloe nodded weakly. "He's just like his father. Always playing god, always watching. I should've known he'd crawl out of whatever hole OSI buried him in."
"But Lucian wasn't free when some of the others died," Elijah reminded her. "Lockridge, Wynter, Sethi—they all fell while he was still locked away. Someone else is pulling strings."
Chloe unlocked her phone. Notifications burst across the screen like sparks—hundreds, thousands. #CancelTheHalverns trended everywhere. Short clips, edited rants, fake "leaks." All twisting her family's name into something monstrous.
Then she saw it—the top post.
The Veilbreak Podcast.
The thumbnail showed three people in a dim, cluttered studio. Marcus Holloway—the conspiracy journalist with too much time and too many followers. Clara Vance—his razor-tongued partner. Between them, an old man hunched over a pile of yellowed papers, his face lined and bitter.
"I was there," the man croaked, his voice crackling through her phone's speaker. "I saw what Theodore Halvern did. The parties. The deals. He ran this city's corruption like a king."
Marcus leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You're saying Crestwood's richest family—"
"Owns everything!" the man interrupted, slapping his stack of papers with a bony hand. "Even the news that covers for them!"
Chloe's stomach twisted. She was about to shut it off when something on the wall behind the man caught her eye.
A painting.
An angel draped in white—but its robe formed a shape that didn't belong. Three hollow points, a faint triangle glowing beneath cracked varnish, spiraling inward toward a pale, untouched center.
Her blood turned to ice.
The Negasign.
The same mark that flashed across her hacked monitor earlier. It wasn't coincidence. It couldn't be. Someone had placed it there. A signal. A warning.
The old man's voice droned on. "Aubrey Wynter's mother tried to expose them. That's why she's dead. Theodore ordered it himself!"
Clara looked uneasy, shifting in her seat. "That's a big accusation."
Marcus stared directly into the camera, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. "If this is true, Crestwood's been living under a mask. And the mask is slipping."
The comments below exploded—hate, threats, outrage scrolling faster than she could read.
The Halverns killed Aubrey's mom.
Burn their empire down.
Chloe felt something inside her snap. "Lucian's behind this," she whispered, her hands trembling around the phone. "He's turning the city against us."
"Elijah," she said, voice hardening into steel. "Drive faster."
He pressed down on the accelerator. The Gwagon surged forward, lights stretching into
streaks across the dark road.
The phone rang in her hand.
One tone. Two. Three.
The line clicked open.