The storm had not let up. Rain lashed the tall windows of the Hayes mansion, rattling against the panes like impatient fingers drumming for entry. The house, once a monument of stillness and prestige, had transformed into a humming war zone. Every corner, every corridor crackled with tension, a hive of whispered strategy and concealed agendas.
In the study, Lottie sat at the long oak table, papers spread before her like a battlefield map. Her fingers drummed lightly on a dossier, the rhythmic tap a counterpoint to the hiss of rain outside. The wood beneath her fingertips was cool, solid, anchoring her against the adrenaline simmering just below her skin. Across from her, Leo hunched over his laptop, brow furrowed, eyes sharp behind his glasses as lines of encrypted code scrolled down the screen.
"Got it," Leo muttered, his voice taut with triumph. His fingers flew, unlocking another barrier. "Evelyn's offshore accounts—this is the smoking gun." His breath came a little quicker, a glint of excitement sparking in his eyes as he turned the screen toward her. "She's been moving funds through shell companies. Quiet, slick, but not slick enough."
Lottie's lips curved into a razor-thin smile. She leaned back, exhaling slowly, the leather chair sighing beneath her. The hum of the rain against the windows filled the momentary quiet, a low whisper threading between them. "Send everything to Mason," she said softly, her voice laced with steel. "I want him armed before he steps into that boardroom."
A faint shiver rippled through her as she reached for a glass of water. The rim was cold against her lips, the swallow sharp and grounding. She set it down with care, fingertips lingering on the cool condensation. Outside the study, hurried footsteps echoed—soft-soled, urgent, muffled curses under breath. The mansion had become a pressure cooker.
Mason, already in motion, paced the hallway with a phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low, measured, threaded with calm authority as he murmured updates to Lottie. "Board members are restless," he reported, pausing by the window where rain painted trembling silver streaks across the glass. His free hand tapped restlessly against the windowsill, a rare flicker of tension slipping past his usual control. "But Evelyn's losing ground. They're asking questions she can't answer."
A tight smile ghosted across Lottie's face, gone almost before it appeared. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, steady and sharp. She could feel it—the slow tipping of balance, the invisible shift in the air like the hush before a storm breaks.
Upstairs, Evelyn clutched the back of a chair in her room, her knuckles bone white. She'd been pacing for hours, heels clicking a jagged rhythm against the marble. Her eyes darted to the window, then to the flickering candle on her desk, the flame bending and twisting in the draft. The visions had been flickering again—fragments of faces, whispers half-heard, boardroom tables smeared in shadow.
"Enough," she hissed under her breath, slamming a palm flat against the desk. The sharp crack of impact vibrated up her arm, leaving her fingertips tingling. Her PR team waited downstairs, their emails and calls lined up like obedient soldiers. She inhaled sharply, adjusted her blouse with trembling fingers, and forced a brittle smile onto her face. "Control the narrative," she reminded herself, smoothing a hand over her hair, the fine strands slipping like silk beneath her palm. "Control everything."
Her shoulders tightened as she glanced in the mirror. For a moment, her own eyes startled her—wide, red-rimmed, wild beneath the polish. She dragged in a shaky breath, pressed her palms against her cheeks, and watched as her face slowly rearranged itself into the familiar, effortless mask. By the time she swept out the door, only the faint tremor in her hands betrayed the fracture lines underneath.
In the archive room, dim and dust-choked, Amy crouched on the floor, a stack of folders teetering beside her. Her breath fogged faintly in the cold air as she flipped through witness testimonies with trembling fingers, the words blurring as her eyes stung. Her heart thudded in her chest, loud and uneven, her throat dry as paper. Her phone buzzed at her knee, jolting her with a sharp, electric stab of panic.
Amy: "Compiling now. Almost done."
Lottie's reply came swift, the screen lighting up in the gloom: "Good. Stay close to Mason. And Amy—thank you."
Amy drew in a shaky breath, pressing her palm to her chest. Her heart battered against her ribs like a caged thing, but with every page she touched, every confession she read, she felt something harden inside her—a resolve she hadn't known she possessed. She closed her eyes for a moment, fingers tightening on the edge of the folder, and whispered under her breath, "Come on, Amy. Finish this."
In the formal lounge, Adrian stood by the tall windows, phone cradled between shoulder and ear. "I've secured the journalist," he said softly into the receiver. His voice was a low murmur, smooth and composed, though his free hand toyed absently with his cufflink, the only betrayal of the tension simmering beneath his skin. "He's discreet. When you're ready to leak, we go." His eyes flicked to Lottie, who entered the room like a whisper of motion, her heels making no sound on the thick rug.
"Are you sure you want to detonate this now?" Adrian asked quietly as she approached. His gaze searched her face, his brows knitting briefly as if hoping, or fearing, she might change her mind.
Lottie's eyes were cold steel. "I don't want to," she murmured, brushing a hand over a file as she laid it on the coffee table, fingers lingering just a moment too long. "But Evelyn's left no choice." Her hand brushed against Adrian's in a fleeting touch, the warmth startling against his cool skin. "Tomorrow, Adrian. Everything changes."
Meanwhile, Evelyn moved through the mansion like a storm front. She slipped into the PR room, voice sharp and commanding. "I want statements prepped. If anyone so much as breathes about offshore accounts, we bury it under charity headlines." Her team scrambled, tapping furiously at keyboards, murmuring confirmations. Evelyn's nails clicked against the edge of the conference table, a rapid-fire beat she didn't seem to notice. Her gaze flitted from one screen to the next, pupils blown wide with adrenaline, smile fixed so tightly it carved faint grooves into her cheeks.
But beneath the glossy surface, Evelyn's thoughts were splintering. As she spoke, her mind flashed with jagged images—Mason's cool gaze, Lottie's half-smile, Robert's shadowed face. Her foresight flickered like a dying bulb, offering only flashes: a raised hand, a door swinging shut, her own face turning away. She swallowed hard, throat dry, fingers curling into fists behind her back. "Hold," she breathed, the word ghosting through her teeth. "Hold it together."
Down the hallway, Robert stood at the window, watching the rain blur the garden into impressionist strokes of green and gray. His arms were folded, jaw tight, and though his phone buzzed steadily in his hand, he made no move to answer. When Evelyn's reflection flickered faintly in the glass behind him, he only closed his eyes briefly, shoulders bowing just slightly, as though under a weight no one else could see.
In the library, Leo let out a soft laugh, eyes wide as another encrypted folder unfolded on the screen. "Lottie," he called, voice sharp with excitement, "you're going to want to see this." She moved to his side, peering over his shoulder as rows of numbers cascaded across the screen. "Transfers, dates, signatures. She's buried herself."
Lottie's fingers brushed her chin, a slow smile curling at the edge of her mouth. "Send it to Mason. And Adrian. And the board ally." Her voice was soft, but the steel was unmistakable. "It's time to pull the last threads."
In a quiet corner of the mansion, Amy sat cross-legged, head bowed over her notes. Her hands trembled slightly as she jotted the final details, but when Mason passed her on his way down the hall, he paused, hand warm on her shoulder. "You're doing good work, Amy," he murmured, his voice low, grounding. She lifted her head, eyes shining, lips parting as if to speak—but she only gave a small, fierce nod, the words catching in her throat.
Evelyn swept past the kitchen, her mind racing. Her fingers twitched at her sides, visions blurring and sparking. She saw herself in a flash—standing alone at the board table, voices raised, papers strewn like ash. A flicker of Lottie's face, calm, unreadable. She stumbled, catching herself on the edge of the marble counter. "Not yet," she whispered. "Not yet, damn it."
In the boardroom, Price adjusted his cufflinks, gaze flicking to the door. Robert loomed in the corner, eyes cold, unreadable. Price's phone vibrated once. Evelyn. Again. He let it ring. His jaw clenched, breath moving slow and deliberate through his nose as the light flickered overhead, casting restless shadows across the room.
Night deepened, shadows creeping through the mansion's long halls. Upstairs, Lottie stood alone by the window, watching the storm lash itself out against the world beyond. Her fingers rested lightly on the windowpane, cool glass grounding the heat building inside her. Her breath misted faintly on the surface, eyes tracing the jagged line of lightning as it split the sky.
"Tomorrow," she murmured, voice barely a thread of sound. "Everything changes."
Behind her, the house held its breath.