The storm hadn't stopped since dawn.
Thunder rolled over the estate like war drums, and every crack of lightning lit up the tension in the room between them.
Alexander stood by the window, the glove from Lys still in his hand.
Isabella remained seated. Her posture was stiff, her voice ice.
"You knew she was hunted. You knew they'd come for her again."
"I thought I could protect her by staying silent," Alexander said, finally turning to face her. "But I was wrong."
She rose to her feet, slow and deliberate.
"You don't get to hide behind guilt, Alexander. Not anymore."
He stepped closer. "She trusted me—"
"And you buried the truth," Isabella snapped. "What else are you hiding? What else did you let happen in the name of peace?"
Alexander didn't flinch. "I buried the truth to protect you."
"Don't use me as your excuse."
They stared at each other for a long, heavy moment.
Old scars and new wounds tangled like smoke between them.
Then Isabella exhaled and reached for the list of names again.
"This… this is a kill list," she said. "People connected to the Order, still active. Some of them are inside our own house."
Alexander glanced at it and his face hardened.
"Then we clean house. Together."
She hesitated.
"You still want to work with me?"
"I still love you." His voice was low. "Even if you hate me right now."
Isabella didn't respond.
Instead, she circled the desk, tracing the map they had used before.
But this time, she added her own mark:
The Black Swan Theatre.
"Madame Lys left a message. A performance. She wants us to come to her stage."
"She's baiting you."
"Then I'll play along," Isabella said. "But she's not the only one setting a trap."
They made the plan quietly.
Alexander would draw out the Velvet Order's moles using false intelligence.
Isabella would attend the "performance" Lys had summoned — alone, but not unarmed.
As she packed her coat and weapon, Alexander stopped her at the door.
"Isabella," he said quietly. "Whatever you find there—"
"I already found it," she interrupted. "You kept my sister's death from me. Nothing else will break me."
But her voice trembled just enough to betray her.
Alexander reached out — and she let him hold her hand for only a moment.
Then she walked into the rain, leaving him behind in the dark.
The Black Swan Theatre.
Abandoned. But alive tonight.
Candles lined the aisles. A violin played from the shadows.
And there, in the center of the ruined stage, stood Madame Lys — older now, but still regal, still venom in a velvet smile.
"You've grown into your fury," she said as Isabella stepped forward. "Just like your sister."
"Where is she?" Isabella demanded.
Lys didn't answer. She only gestured to the center of the stage, where a velvet curtain parted—
Revealing a glass coffin.
Inside it, Evelyn lay motionless, untouched by time.
Or so it seemed.
Isabella's breath caught.
"You preserved her," she whispered. "Why?"
"She was our masterpiece. The first to ever leave us… and nearly destroy us."
"She was never yours."
"She was always mine."
Then Lys smiled coldly.
"And now, so are you."