Geneva, for all its elegance and order, felt like a stage decorated to hide the rot behind the curtains.
Damon had always hated it. Not for its wealth—but for the way it disguised cruelty in civility. He knew too many powerful men who'd met in these quiet hills, behind gilded doors, signing deals soaked in blood while sipping aged scotch.
Now he was back. And this time, it was personal.
---
They left Matthias under private care—real care, this time. Serena kissed her father's cheek as he fell asleep, the sedatives gentle this time, not forced. And when she returned to Damon's side in the long corridor outside the clinic, her expression had shifted.
No longer grief-stricken.
Now it was sharp.
Determined.
"I want to find who did this to him," she said.
Damon didn't flinch. "We will."
She looked up at him, something deeper swimming in her gaze. "You already know something. Don't you?"
A pause.
Then a slow nod.
"There was only one man in my circle back then who had access to those accounts. Only one who worked close enough to forge the signatures and bury the transfer in a noise layer."
Serena's heart skipped. "Who?"
Damon looked out over the snow-covered hills. "His name was Everett Cade. He was like a brother to me. Until he wasn't."
Her breath caught. "What did he do?"
Damon's voice turned cold. "He betrayed me. Sold classified client ledgers to foreign buyers. Got three operatives killed. I exposed him. Thought he was gone."
Serena stepped closer. "And you think he's working with the Circle now?"
"I don't think," Damon said, jaw tight. "I know."
---
They didn't wait.
They went to the last address Damon had traced for Everett—an old manor on the edge of Lake Léman. It was dusk now, and the air had turned violet with nightfall, the lake like a dark mirror reflecting the clouds above.
The gate was open.
The front door too.
Serena stiffened. "It's a trap."
Damon glanced at her. "Yes."
"And we're walking in anyway?"
His hand brushed hers. "We're walking in together."
---
The house was empty—too quiet. Dustless. Like someone had been expecting company.
A fire burned in the hearth of the main room, casting eerie shadows on the marble floor. And sitting before it, back turned, was a man in a midnight suit with graying hair and posture too poised to be surprised.
Everett Cade.
He didn't turn as they entered.
"I was wondering when you'd come home, Damon," he said, voice smooth, ageless.
"You don't get to use that word," Damon said.
Now Everett turned.
And when he smiled, Serena felt something in her freeze.
It was the kind of smile men wore when they had nothing left to lose.
Or everything already won.
"Hello, Serena," Everett said. "You look just like your mother did when she figured it out."
Her blood turned to ice.
"My mother?" she whispered.
Damon took a step forward. "Don't."
But it was too late.
Everett rose slowly, like a man unafraid of death. "Your father was sloppy, but your mother—now she was the real threat. Brilliant. Relentless. She found things even I missed."
Serena's heart thudded.
"You killed her," she said.
Everett raised a brow. "No. I warned her. Told her to back off. She didn't listen. The Circle doesn't forgive ambition from the wrong bloodlines."
He paused, then gave Damon a smirk.
"And neither do you, old friend."
The silence in the room turned lethal.
Serena looked at Damon, whose fists had clenched at his sides.
This wasn't just about betrayal anymore.
This was personal.
---
Then—gunfire.
A window shattered behind them.
Damon grabbed Serena, pulling her down just before another bullet screamed through the room.
"She brought backup," Damon hissed.
"He brought snipers," Serena snapped, crawling behind the couch with him.
But Everett was already gone.
The room filled with the sound of retreating footsteps, a door creaking open upstairs.
"He's escaping," Serena said.
"No," Damon growled. "He's leading us somewhere."
---
Upstairs, they followed.
Carefully. Quietly.
Until they found the study.
Empty.
Except… for the old projector in the middle of the room.
Still running.
A video played—grainy footage. A man tied to a chair.
Bloodied.
Struggling.
Serena's breath caught.
It was her father.
And behind him, a shadowed figure asking questions in a voice distorted through filters. But the silhouette—tall, broad-shouldered, cruel in its stillness—was unmistakable.
It wasn't Everett.
It was someone else.
Someone bigger.
Darker.
"He wasn't working alone," Serena whispered.
Damon's eyes narrowed. "This is bigger than I thought."
The screen went black.
A message burned in red text across the wall:
"You've found the first ghost. The others won't be so kind."
---
Later that night, in their temporary safe house overlooking the lake, Serena sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, still shaking.
Damon stood nearby, pouring brandy.
He didn't offer her any.
He knew she needed something different.
So he crossed the room, knelt in front of her, and cupped her face gently.
"You're allowed to be scared," he whispered.
She nodded, eyes wet. "I'm not scared of them."
"Then what?"
"I'm scared of what I'll become to stop them."
Damon's hand slid down to her neck, his thumb brushing her pulse. "You won't lose yourself. I won't let you."
Her voice cracked. "Promise me?"
"I do," he said.
And then he kissed her.
Not out of passion.
Not to silence.
But because sometimes, the only armor left between two people is the way their mouths say we're still here even when the world tries to erase them.