The library in Wolfe Tower's basement wasn't just a vanity archive—it was a graveyard of secrets. Paper records. Contracts. Obsolete files that digital audits couldn't touch.
Ava had never been down here before. Few people had.
But today, she had a name, a year, and a theory.
Isabelle Wolfe.
2018.
Final project: Operation Meridian.
The file wasn't supposed to exist anymore—scrubbed after Isabelle's death and the project's "closure." But one name had surfaced from Damian's old notes: Graham Leeds. Former CFO. Quiet exit. No press.
She found him at a retirement compound in Connecticut, tucked away behind books and bourbon. He agreed to speak—off the record, no recordings.
Guilt was a language he spoke fluently.
"Isabelle was brilliant," he said, sipping scotch at ten a.m. "Too honest for this place. She believed Meridian could change things—health tech, clean distribution chains, transparency."
"So what happened?"
"She found discrepancies. Offshore payments. Missing funds. Tied to Monroe Capital."
Ava's blood went cold.
"She took it to your father," he continued. "Two weeks later, she was dead."
"And you?" she asked quietly.
"I took the golden parachute. With strings. Silence. But now that I've seen what's happening—Cecilia, the leak… I can't help but wonder if the rot never left."
He reached into a worn leather satchel and pulled out a flash drive. "I kept one file. Not everything, but enough. I owed her that."
Ava took it, her fingers trembling.
On the way back to New York, she read the first document.
A transfer of $2.6 million to a phantom subsidiary under Wolfe International. Authorized… by Damian Wolfe.
Her heart stopped.
It couldn't be right.
He told her he knew nothing.
That he'd buried Isabelle's file out of grief.
But this—this was a signature. A timestamp. A lie.
She didn't want to believe it.
But the evidence didn't care what she wanted.
Back in her apartment, she stared at the screen, silence pressing in around her.
If this was true…
Either Damian signed something he didn't understand.
Or he was involved.
Either way, he hadn't told her.
And the man she'd begun to fall for—maybe even trust—had just become a suspect in his sister's death.
Damian was already in her apartment when she arrived.
The lights were low. His jacket was off. He was seated on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, like a man preparing to confess or to bleed.
Ava didn't speak.
She simply set the flash drive on the coffee table between them.
Damian stared at it for a long time. Then looked up at her.
"You went to Leeds," he said quietly.
"I did," she replied.
"And he gave you that."
"He did."
Silence. Heavy, electric. Ava folded her arms, steeling herself.
"Why didn't you tell me you authorized a $2.6 million transfer to a shell company tied to Meridian?"
"I didn't know," he said. "Not really."
"That's not good enough."
Damian stood slowly. His expression wasn't cold—it was wounded. Not defensive, but bare.
"Do you know what it's like," he said, voice low, "to be a twenty-seven-year-old son of a king who's told to sign things you don't understand? Who's told not to ask questions because asking means you don't belong?"
"I thought you said you didn't lie to me," she whispered.
"I didn't," he said. "Not intentionally. That signature… yes, it's mine. But the paperwork was buried in a stack of compliance forms. I didn't see the account name. Or the shell routing. I was a placeholder executive—kept busy with shiny projects and fake control."
Ava's throat tightened. She wanted to believe him. God, she did.
"And Isabelle?" she asked. "She came to you, didn't she?"
He looked away. Pain passed over his face like a stormcloud.
"She did. A week before she died. She said something was wrong, that she had proof. I told her I'd handle it, that she should let me protect her."
"And?"
"She didn't believe I could. She went around me—to my father. And then…"
His voice broke, just slightly.
"She died."
Ava felt something crack inside her. She crossed the room, standing in front of him. "Why didn't you fight harder?"
"I was scared," he whispered. "That I'd lose the last person in this family who mattered."
"You did."
Damian looked up at her, raw. "And I've been paying for it every day since."
Ava didn't touch him.
She just whispered, "Then prove to me it meant something."
Because now the war wasn't just corporate.
It was personal.
Wolfe Manor was a fortress dressed as a mansion—stone, glass, iron gates. The kind of place that whispered legacy and roared control.
Ava had only seen it once, from a distance. Tonight, she stood at its threshold.
She hadn't told Damian.
If she had, he'd have stopped her.
Because behind those doors sat the man who taught Damian everything he was… and everything he feared becoming.
Gerald Wolfe. Founder of Wolfe International. Billionaire. Strategist. Kingmaker. And, some whispered, executioner.
The butler led her through halls lined with oil paintings and silence. When she stepped into the sunken lounge, Gerald was already seated by the fire, a glass of scotch in his hand, and a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.
"So," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "The girl who's stirred my son like a match to gasoline. Sit."
Ava did. She didn't flinch.
"You've come for answers," he said.
"I've come for the truth."
He took a slow sip. "And you think I'll give it to you?"
"I think," she said evenly, "you've kept your empire through control. But you're not a god. Just a man. One who let his daughter die to preserve an illusion."
His eyes flashed. "Careful."
"No," Ava said. "I'm done being careful."
A beat of silence passed. Then Gerald chuckled.
"Isabelle was brilliant. Naïve, but brilliant. She thought ethics could coexist with power. I warned her. I warned them all."
"Did you have her killed?" Ava asked.
The words were a gunshot in the room.
Gerald didn't react. Just swirled his glass.
"No," he said finally. "But I didn't protect her either. And that makes me just as guilty."
Ava's breath caught.
"Why?"
"Because she was going to blow the whistle," Gerald said. "And if she had, the board would've cut me out. The company would've bled. I chose the lesser evil."
"You chose silence."
"I chose survival."
Ava stood, fury rising. "Damian blames himself. He thinks he failed her."
Gerald's gaze sharpened. "And yet here you are. Crawling into wolves' dens, looking for redemption that isn't yours to claim."
"I'm not looking for redemption," Ava said. "I'm looking for justice."
He raised an eyebrow. "Be careful, Miss Sinclair. Justice is just revenge in pearls."
As Ava turned to leave, he added softly, "Tell Damian to stop digging. Or he'll end up like Isabelle."
She didn't turn around.
Because she already knew: she wasn't stopping.
Damian stormed into Ava's apartment like a man pushed past every limit.
"You went to him?" he hissed, barely inside the door.
Ava rose from the kitchen island, the flash drive in one hand, her phone in the other. "I had to."
"You don't go to my father behind my back!"
"You weren't going to take the risk, Damian. You were afraid."
He stopped dead. "Of what, Ava? The truth? Or losing someone else I care about?"
The words hung in the air. Sharp. Unforgiving.
She blinked, and her voice softened. "I didn't go to him to hurt you. I went to him because he's the only one left who knows what really happened to Isabelle."
"And what did he say?"
"That he let her die," Ava whispered. "Not with his hands. But with his silence."
Damian closed his eyes like the weight of it cracked his ribs.
"He told me to stop digging. That if we keep pushing, you'll end up like her."
Damian opened his eyes slowly. And when he did, they weren't filled with fear. They burned with clarity.
"Then we don't stop," he said. "Because this—" he tapped the flash drive, "—this is the beginning. If that account led to Monroe Capital, and Cecilia's still pulling strings, there's more."
Ava nodded. "There's always more."
He stepped closer. Not the calculated approach of a CEO. Not the seduction of a man who wanted her body.
This was raw. Real.
"I need you," he said. "Not just for this. For everything. And if you're still in—if you still trust me—then we go all the way."
She looked up at him.
There were no games left between them now. Just a choice.
Ava reached for his hand and linked their fingers.
"I'm all in," she said.
And when he kissed her, there was no hesitation. Just heat. Purpose. A promise that whatever storm came next—they'd face it side by side.
But outside, in the dark of the city, someone else was watching.
A phone camera clicked.
A silhouette turned away.
And a message was sent.
Target confirmed. Leverage secured. Proceed with Phase II.