The car ride home felt like a blur of streetlights and shadows.
Alex’s hands clenched the steering wheel, knuckles pale, the evidence still pressed against her ribs like a second heartbeat. Her chest rose and fell too fast. She kept glancing at the rearview mirror, half-expecting Zade’s car to appear, headlights cutting through the night. But no one followed her. No one stopped her.
She’d made it out.
She’d done it.
As soon as the penthouse door shut behind her, she locked every bolt and rushed to the living room, nearly tripping over her own shoes. Her fingers fumbled for her phone. The line rang once. Twice.
Arthur picked up on the third.
“I got it,” she whispered, breathless. “Arthur, I actually got it.”
There was a pause. Then his voice, calm and clipped: “What do you mean ‘got it’?”
“The proof. The documents—shipment manifests, contacts, bank accounts. It’s all here. I have it. I want to show Luca. Tonight. He needs to see—”
“No.”
The word hit her like ice water.
Arthur’s voice hardened. “Not yet. Don’t do anything rash.”
“I’m not being rash—”
“You’re being emotional,” he cut in. “And I get it. I do. But you need to think, Alex. If we go to your father now, he could panic. If anyone in the Hale network catches wind of this, they’ll wipe their entire system before we can touch it. We need to move surgically. Carefully.”
She sank down onto the couch, pressing her palm to her forehead. “So what do I do?”
“Hide it. Somewhere safe. And meet me in the morning. We’ll bring in David. No phones, no files exchanged digitally. You bring the hard copy. We’ll start making verified duplicates.”
Alex hesitated, every instinct inside her begging to run to her father and throw the evidence on his desk.
But she swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay. Tomorrow.”
“Good girl.”
The call ended.
She stood in silence for a few long seconds, then moved. She took the evidence from her coat and carefully slid it into a flat portfolio, wrapped it in plastic, then tucked it beneath the false bottom of her old painting supply box—the one no one ever touched, not even the housekeepers.
She stared at it for a long second.
Then closed the lid.
***
The next morning, the café was loud and humming with energy—espresso machines hissing, silverware clinking, customers murmuring over their lattes and croissants.
It was the perfect cover.
Alex spotted Arthur immediately. He sat in a booth by the window, flanked by David, whose arms were crossed over his chest and whose mouth twisted in a faint smirk when she arrived.
She slid into the booth and placed the folder between them. “I made it out clean. Zade caught me with a decoy photo. He thinks that’s all I took.”
David opened the folder and flipped through the contents. His brow lifted.
“Well,” he murmured. “You’re either brave or stupid. Maybe both.”
“Thanks,” Alex said dryly.
Arthur glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “First step is to make several certified duplicates. Not just copies—authenticated scans, notarized. We’ll store them separately in case anything happens to the original.”
David tapped one page with his finger. “We can also have a lawyer issue a formal declaration that the documents are genuine. That’ll hold weight in court if it ever comes to that.”
Alex leaned forward. “And if we show this to the press?”
Arthur shook his head. “Not yet. The moment we go public, we lose control of the narrative. Let’s make sure we have every piece lined up. The second we expose them, the Hales will fight back. We need to make sure their empire burns before they have a chance to shift blame or spin it.”
Alex nodded slowly, the weight of it all sinking in.
This wasn’t just about revenge anymore.
It was war.
***
The rest of the day passed in agonizing contrast.
Back at Steel Industries, it was business as usual—meetings, updates, calls. No one knew what had happened the night before. No one knew what she carried now. Her expression stayed smooth, professional. She discussed marketing forecasts and revenue projections while her brain buzzed with plans for legal takedowns and press strategies.
She didn’t let herself look at her phone more than once.
Didn’t text Arthur or David.
Didn’t even check the painting box when she got home for lunch, even though the urge burned under her skin.
By 6 p.m., she was finally done.
She left the office, exhaling as the cool evening air greeted her like a friend. The sky was painted in streaks of orange and violet, the parking lot dim but still busy with a few lingering employees heading home.
Her heels clicked softly as she crossed toward her car, bag slung over one shoulder, the world finally beginning to slow.
And then she heard the footsteps.
Steady. Close. Too close.
She didn’t bother turning.
“Very funny, Zade,” she muttered, pulling out her keys. “Try stalking a girl when you’re not two steps behind.”
No answer.
Her gut twisted.
Alex turned. And froze.
It wasn’t Zade.
It was Andrea.
His face was blank. Eyes dark. No smile. No smirk. Just something sharp and silent written across his expression, like a blade tucked inside a silk glove.
Before she could speak—before she could even fully process the sight of him—something heavy slammed into the side of her head.
White-hot pain exploded behind her eyes. The world tipped sideways.
She tasted blood.
Then everything went black.