The air was too quiet.
Annalise stood by the window of the Leamington estate, the early morning light catching the edge of her reflection in the glass. Reporters were camped outside the gates, flashes popping like fireflies. Her phone had been buzzing nonstop with alerts—articles, interviews, trending hashtags.
The truth was out.
She was no longer a secret. She was the Leamington heir.
"They love a queen until she becomes a threat," Delphine had warned her last night.
And she was right.
Annalise turned from the window as a staff member entered. "Miss Leamington, a few threatening messages came in overnight. They're being filtered and reported, but... some of them seem unusually informed."
"Carlos?"
"Nothing confirmed, but the shadows are shifting."
Annalise gave a single nod. Her voice was calm. "Keep tracking. And tighten security around Rezi."
Rezi sat on the couch in her suite, a thick envelope resting in her lap. No name, no return address—just her name in looping cursive. She had found it lying on her bed that morning.
With hesitant fingers, she opened it.
Inside was a photograph. Old, maybe a few months back. It was her and Clyde, working together at a charity booth. She remembered that day. They'd only just met a few weeks before.
She flipped the photo over.
"They don't know you like I do."
Her breath caught.
Not wasting a second, she grabbed the envelope and stormed down the hall.
"Annalise!" she called, banging on the door.
The door swung open. Annalise raised an eyebrow, already in a black suit and combat boots. "That doesn't sound like morning tea."
Rezi shoved the photo into her hand.
Annalise looked at the picture, then the writing.
"I think someone's watching you, or worse stalking you...."
Rezi folded her arms tightly. "This photo—it's from a few months back. We didn't even know Clyde or Han before this. How would someone have this?"
"We're not just fighting ghosts," Annalise muttered. "We're fighting watchers."
Clyde stormed into his father's home office, gripping his phone like it was a weapon.
"Dad," he said without preamble, "we need to talk about Carlos Leamington."
His father's face tightened.
"You knew him?" Clyde asked.
Mr. Maxwell sighed, pushing his glasses higher. "He was a client. Years ago. Until we found out what kind of monster he really was."
Clyde sat. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because people like Carlos don't just vanish when you expose them. They destroy. But I kept everything—every email, document, transaction. He made one wrong move back then. Enough to put him away. I used it to sever ties and keep him away from this family."
Clyde leaned forward. "He's back. He's not just targeting us. He's after Annalise and her family. He orchestrated her parents' deaths."
Silence.
Then, Mr. Maxwell stood and unlocked a drawer.
"Then it's time we finish what we started."
They laid the documents out. Timelines. Dates. Names.
Clyde texted Annalise.
"I have a plan. We're going to expose him."
Han sat alone in the archives. Files surrounded him like a paper sea. One manila folder had no label—just an ink smear.
He opened it.
Financial records. Redacted names. A line highlighted in yellow: "The girl must never know."
His stomach turned.
He inserted a flash drive and started copying. His hands were shaking. As he finished, his phone rang. Unknown Number.
He answered.
A distorted voice. "Walk away. Or you'll end up in the archive too."
Click.
Han stared at the wall. Then pocketed the USB and walked out, faster than he'd come in.
Mid-afternoon.
Annalise stood behind the podium, press flashing and microphones pointed like daggers. This was the official announcement. She wasn't just a Leamington by blood. She was the heiress in title and power.
She scanned the crowd. Saw Delphine. Han. Rezi.
Clyde was missing.
Her voice rang out, clear and commanding. "For too long, silence has been the Leamington legacy. That ends now."
Thunderous applause. Cameras snapped.
And then, softly, she whispered:
"If they want war," her eyes finding the stars above the rooftop, "then let them see what the heir of Leamington is really made of."
That night.
Clyde and his father were huddled in the study. Files open. News playing low in the background.
Rezi sat beside Annalise, the photo burning in a fireplace tray between them.
Annalise reached in with tongs and pulled something from the envelope—a thin, black disc.
"A tracker," she muttered. "That's how they knew."
Rezi's hands balled into fists.
Annalise looked at her. "We're not victims anymore. We're the storm."
Miles away, in a darkened room, Carlos Leamington smiled coldly as he watched the footage of Annalise's speech.
A message pinged on his laptop.
"She's not afraid anymore."
Carlos leaned back, eyes gleaming.
"Then she's ready to fall."