Anna left Helen's apartment with her thoughts tangled but clearer than before, the night air cool against her skin as she stepped into the quiet street, her mind replaying everything she had said out loud for the first time—about Maverick, about the kidnapping, about the truth that had turned her world upside down—and somehow saying it to Helen made it more real, more solid, like something she could no longer escape or deny, and as she made her way back to Vincent's mansion she couldn't shake the feeling that everything was moving too fast, like she had been thrown into a story that had started long before she was born and now she was expected to understand it, fix it, and survive it all at once, and by the time she arrived the gates were already open as if Vincent had been expecting her, which didn't surprise her anymore because he always seemed to know where she was and what she needed even when she didn't say it, and when she walked inside she found him exactly where she thought he would be—in his study, standing by the window, his back to the door, his posture tense in that quiet, controlled way that told her he was thinking deeply about something dangerous, something important, and she didn't speak immediately because she could feel it in the air, the weight of whatever he had already started digging into about his father, about Maverick, about the past that was no longer just history but something alive and affecting both of them, and when he finally turned to look at her his eyes softened just slightly before returning to that sharp, focused look she knew so well, "You're back," he said simply, and she nodded, stepping further into the room, "I told Helen everything," she admitted, her voice calm but carrying the weight of everything behind it, and Vincent watched her closely as if measuring her strength, her stability, her readiness for what was coming next, "And?" he asked, and Anna let out a small breath, "She thinks my life is a movie," she said with a faint smile, and for a brief moment Vincent's lips almost curved before he returned to seriousness, "It's not a movie," he said quietly, "It's war," and those words settled heavily between them because they both knew he wasn't exaggerating, and Anna stepped closer, her gaze steady, "Then maybe it's time the war ends," she said, and Vincent's expression shifted slightly, not anger, not disbelief, but something more complicated, like he wanted to believe that but didn't know how, "It doesn't work like that," he replied, his voice low, and Anna shook her head, "It could," she insisted, "if both of you stopped holding onto the past," and Vincent let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair, "You think it's that simple?" he asked, and Anna met his gaze without hesitation, "No, I think it's hard, but that doesn't mean it's impossible," and there was a silence after that, one that wasn't empty but filled with unspoken thoughts, with possibilities neither of them fully understood yet, and Vincent finally walked toward his desk, picking up a file and holding it for a moment before looking back at her, "I've started looking into what really happened that night," he said, and Anna's heart skipped slightly, "And?" she asked, and Vincent hesitated just long enough to make her nervous before answering, "There are inconsistencies," he admitted, and that alone was enough to shift something inside her because Vincent was not a man who admitted uncertainty easily, "Meaning?" she pressed, and Vincent's jaw tightened slightly, "Meaning Maverick's version might not be entirely false," he said, and Anna felt a strange mix of relief and anxiety at the same time because while it meant there was truth to what Maverick said, it also meant everything Vincent believed could be shaken, and she stepped closer again, her voice softer now, "That's all I wanted you to consider," she said, and Vincent looked at her for a long moment before nodding once, "I'll find out the truth," he said, "no matter what it is," and Anna believed him because Vincent didn't make empty promises, and as the night stretched on they found themselves sitting in the living room again, not watching anything this time but simply existing in the same space, the silence between them no longer tense but thoughtful, reflective, and Anna leaned back slightly, her mind drifting to Maverick, to the way he had looked at her when he spoke about her mother, to the truth in his voice when he said he didn't know about her, and it confused her because she had expected to hate him completely but instead she found herself stuck in between anger and curiosity, and Vincent noticed the shift in her expression, "You're thinking about him," he said, and Anna didn't deny it, "I don't know what to feel," she admitted, and Vincent's gaze softened slightly, "You don't have to decide right now," he said, and she nodded because that was the only thing keeping her from feeling overwhelmed, and as the hours passed the house grew quieter, the city outside dimming into the background, and for the first time since everything had started Anna felt a small sense of stability, not because things were solved but because she wasn't facing them alone, and somewhere across the city Maverick stood in his own silence, looking at an old photograph of Mirabel, his fingers brushing lightly over her face as if trying to connect the past with the present, and now that he knew Anna was his daughter the war with Vincent no longer felt like just a battle for power but a barrier standing between him and something he had unknowingly lost for years, and for the first time in a long time Maverick wasn't thinking about strategy or revenge but about possibility, about whether there was still a chance to fix something broken, even if it was too late to fix everything, and as the night deepened both men stood in different parts of the same city, connected by the same truth, the same girl, and the same question—what happens when the past refuses to stay buried and the future depends on whether you're willing to let it go.
