Elara's face went pale, but her eyes were cold. She didn't reach for the Key. She reached for the champagne flute on the table.
"You haven't changed, Father," she said, her voice steady. "Always the poison. Never the courage to face your enemies."
Silas felt the room beginning to spin. His heart rate was spiking, then dropping dangerously. He gripped the table, his knuckles white.
"The Key, Elara," the Architect demanded, his thumb hovering over the remote. "Now."
"I don't have it," Elara said, taking a sip of the wine. "Marcus has it."
"The traitor?" The Architect laughed. "Marcus is currently being executed in the parking garage. My men found him ten minutes ago."
"Did they?" Elara smiled. It was a terrifyingly beautiful expression.
Suddenly, the lights in the Opera House flickered. The music—The Marriage of Figaro—stuttered and was replaced by a high-pitched, screeching feedback.
"What is this?" the Director demanded, standing up.
"That," Silas wheezed, fighting through the poison, "is a frequency override. Every phone in this room is currently recording your conversation and uploading it to the dark web. The merger is live, Architect. And the world is watching."
The Architect's face twisted in rage. He pressed the remote.
Silas braced for the heart-stopping jolt of electricity. But nothing happened.
"You forgot one thing, Father," Elara said, pulling a small, glowing device from Silas's pocket—the jammer they'd built at the villa. "I'm a better student than you were a teacher."
She stood up, drawing the diamond dagger from her hair. "And now, I'm going to take back my family's name."