Lilac didn't open the envelope right away.
Something about the weight of it in her hand felt… heavier than it should. It wasn't thick—just a single folded sheet inside—but it pulsed with the kind of knowledge that changed things. She knew what it was like to open something and never see the world the same way again. Like the letter from the hospital when her father didn't come home. Like the police report that said "no foul play" in bold letters she didn't believe.
She walked the long path home from the observatory in silence, her thoughts spiraling. Tristan had said someone was watching her. That the men in the alley might not have been a random encounter.
That wasn't possible. She was just a girl. A student. A nobody.
Except that wasn't quite true.
She had her mother's reputation, her father's disappearance, and a name that used to carry weight in the political halls of D.C. And maybe—just maybe—there were still people who remembered the Ambroses and didn't want old ghosts digging up new dirt.
By the time she got to her apartment, the sky was soft with dawn and her fingers were numb. She made tea with trembling hands and finally, finally sat down at the tiny table by the window and opened the envelope.
One photo.
One name.
One address.
The photo was grainy, clearly taken from a distance, but it was her. On campus. Laughing, unaware. The kind of photo someone takes when they're tracking a target, not admiring a stranger. Her stomach turned.
The name: Elias Harrow.
The address: a building on the edge of the financial district—industrial, rundown, mostly forgotten.
Lilac didn't know who Elias Harrow was. But she was damn well going to find out.
She pulled out her laptop and did what she did best.
Three hours later, she had a profile—bare bones but enough to draw a sketch.
Elias Harrow. Ex-military, dishonorably discharged after an internal investigation no one could access. Private security contractor. Known to have worked with underground surveillance networks—off the record, off the radar.
If someone had paid him to watch her, it wasn't a coincidence.
Lilac leaned back, tension coiled in her shoulders. She should take this to someone. The police? Laughable. Her mother? Not a chance.
She needed Tristan.
She didn't want to need him—but she did.
Tristan answered on the first ring.
"You read it," he said, not asking.
"I did. Do you know who he is?"
"Only the name. I've seen him once. Years ago. At a private auction."
"What kind of auction?"
"The kind where nothing legal is sold."
She swallowed. "You know how to find him?"
"I already have. I've been watching his building for days. I wanted to see what he did after I intervened."
"And?"
"Nothing. That's what's strange. He's gone quiet."
Lilac hesitated. "I want to go with you."
"No."
"It's my name on that paper. My face in that photo."
"And if I walk you into something too dark, you'll regret it."
"I already regret not knowing." Her voice was steel now. "I want the truth, Tristan. You can't protect me by keeping me in the dark."
Silence hummed through the line.
Then, finally: "Be at the corner of 6th and Harper in thirty minutes. Wear black. No perfume. Hair up."
She was already pulling on her boots.
The building was uglier up close—concrete stained by rust, windows cracked or boarded up. It looked abandoned, but it wasn't. A single camera above the rusted door turned slowly from side to side.
Tristan met her in the alley beside it, dressed in dark tactical gear, no logos, no identifying marks. He handed her a small earpiece.
"Stay behind me. Don't touch anything. If I say run, you run."
She nodded.
He handed her a tiny blade, thin as a pencil, sharp enough to slice air. "Just in case."
The lock on the door gave way easily under his tools, and they slipped inside. The air smelled of mildew and burnt plastic. The interior was darker than night, lit only by the occasional flickering bulb.
They moved up a narrow staircase to the second floor. Tristan held up a hand—stop.
Voices.
Muffled but clear.
Lilac strained to listen.
"…she's just a girl. I don't see the threat."
A second voice. Smooth. Confident. Cold.
"She's not the threat. The boy is. But she's the bait."
Lilac's blood ran cold.
Tristan's expression didn't change, but his hands moved—slow, precise, pulling a small device from his jacket.
"You said he's out of the city," the first voice said.
"He was. But not anymore. He's looking."
"I thought you said he wouldn't interfere."
"I underestimated him. That won't happen again .