Yuna didn't sleep that night.
Not because of fear. But because silence had become suspect.
The penthouse was too quiet. Too still. The kind that echoed.
She paced the guest suite in bare feet, silk robe brushing the floor, the message from earlier still glowing in her mind:
> You're looking the wrong way, princess. The knife's already inside the house.
Every instinct screamed: someone close to them was the traitor.
Austin? No—he was too meticulous.
One of Alexander's security team? Maybe.
But there was one other possibility.
A person with access, with motive, with years of experience hiding venom behind pearls and charity auctions.
Her mother.
The thought chilled her more than the city wind.
At 6:00 AM, Yuna was all dressed—black jeans, boots, turtleneck. No makeup. Hair in a tight braid. Not for fashion. For function.
She found Alexander in his private gym, throwing punches into a bag like it owed him blood.
He didn't stop when she entered.
Didn't even look up.
"You think it's someone close," she mumbled.
A punch. "Yes."
"You think it's someone in this building."
Another punch. "Yes."
She stepped closer. "You think it's me?"
That finally made him pause.
He turned, sweat slicking his jawline, expression unreadable. "If I thought it weres you, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Her arms folded. "Good. Because if I thought it was you, I wouldn't have knocked."
He gave a dry laugh. "So we're even."
She grabbed a towel and tossed it to him. "We're being hunted, Alexander. We don't have the luxury of secrets anymore."
He wiped his face, nodding slowly. "Agreed."
"But I need you to be honest with me," she said. "Really honest. Is there anyone in your past who would do this? Someone who wouldn't just want revenge—but would enjoy watching us fall apart?"
Alexander didn't answer right away.
He walked to the far window, looking down at the city below.
"I had a half-brother once," he said finally. "Illegitimate. My father's mistake. He wasn't raised in the Wolfe household, but he always believed he deserved to be. When our father died, he expected a share of the company. He got nothing."
Yuna's eyes narrowed. "What happened to him?"
Alexander's voice was stone. "He disappeared."
"You think he's back?"
"I don't know. But if he is…" Alexander turned, eyes dark. "He's not here for a piece of the pie. He's here to poison the entire kitchen."
Later that day, they attended a private investor brunch at the Astoria Conservatory—a power-play appearance designed to keep their faces in the elite media cycle.
Yuna wore navy blue silk. Alexander chose charcoal gray. They looked like royalty dipped in vengeance.
But inside, she was on edge.
They sat beneath a chandelier of hand-blown glass, sipping champagne while brokers and CEOs orbited them with fake laughter and offers wrapped in charm.
Yuna caught snippets of conversation:
> "They say Alexander's taming her."
> "No, darling. She's the one holding the leash."
> "Either way, they're dangerous together."
Good.
That's what she wanted them to think.
But halfway through the event, a man approached the table—a little too casually. Late forties. Expensive suit. Face too familiar to place.
He smiled. "Mr. Wolfe. Miss Eastin."
Alexander didn't return the smile. "We didn't invite you"
"Neither was betrayal, but here we are," the man said coolly, sliding a card across the table.
Alexander's eyes didn't leave him. "You're looking for trouble."
"No," the man said. "I'm offering a warning."
Yuna picked up the card.
It was blank.
Except for a symbol: a black chess rook with a bloody crack down the center.
Alexander's knuckles went white.
The man tipped an invisible hat. "Your move."
Then, he vanished into the crowd.
Back at Wolfe Tower, Yuna turned the card over in her hand.
"What does it mean?" she asked.
"It's from the old boardroom wars," Alexander said, pacing. "Private elite circles used to use symbols instead of signatures. The rook meant power. The cracked rook?" He stopped. "It means power is fractured. Someone's coming for the crown."
Her throat tightened. "And the blood?"
"Personal."
Austin entered then, carrying a tablet.
"We tracked the man from the brunch," he said. "Name's Malcolm Raze. Works under a shell firm linked to Eastin Holdings."
Yuna's head snapped up. "My family?"
Austin nodded grimly. "Which means this goes deeper than David and Elsa. Someone in your house wants to destroy not just your name—but you."
That night, Yuna sat on the rooftop garden of Wolfe Tower, knees pulled to her chest, the city a glittering map below.
She hated how safe this place was starting to feel.
Hated that Alexander's presence steadied her more than it should.
But when he joined her—quietly, no words—she didn't move away.
He sat beside her, staring at the skyline.
"I used to think revenge was clean," she said finally. "Sharp. Simple."
"It's never clean," Alexander replied.
"No, it's messy. It hurts you while you're trying to hurt them. But you can't stop, because if you stop… they win."
He looked at her.
Not the mask.
Her.
"You were never just a pawn," he said. "You were the one they feared would rise. That's why they clipped your wings before you even knew how to fly."
Yuna swallowed the lump in her throat. "And now?"
"Now you have claws."
She exhaled.
It changed nothing.
But it made breathing easier.
Until her phone buzzed again.
Another encrypted message.
But this time, no words.
Just a video.
She tapped play.
The footage was grainy, security cam quality—but unmistakable.
A boardroom.
Her father.
And Alexander's mother.
Alive!
Talking.
Laughing.
Plotting.
The date on the corner: four months ago.
Yuna froze.
Alexander leaned closer, watching, breathe shallow.
When the video ended, he didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
Because everything he thought he knew—everything he'd built his pain around—just fractured.
His mother was alive.
And working with the enemy.
Alexander stood slowly, his face pale with a fury so cold, it felt like winter in June.
"She knew," he said, voice like a blade. "She knew I was burning down the Eastins... and she lit the match with them."
Yuna stood too, the wind catching her braid.
"So, what do we do?"
He looked at her then—not as a business partner.
Not even as a lover.
But as the only person left who might understand his rage.
"We don't hunt anymore," he whispered.
"We ambush."