Elena Norwood stood in the wreckage of Sophia's SoHo studio, the air thick with the acrid scent of spray paint and shattered glass. The centerpiece of Sophia's climate change exhibit—a massive canvas of swirling blues and greens, now defaced with Norwood Lies scrawled in red—hung like a wounded animal on the wall. At twenty-eight, Elena was no stranger to setbacks; her sustainable fashion brand, EcoThreads, had weathered supplier betrayals and investor skepticism. But this vandalism, coupled with the news that Oceanic Textiles had pulled out of her deal citing "Norwood instability," felt personal, a direct strike at her family's heart. Sophia, at twenty-five, stood beside her, her paint-splattered overalls streaked with tears, her usual fire dimmed by shock.
"Whoever did this knew my work," Sophia said, her voice trembling as she traced the jagged letters. "This was my statement piece, El. They didn't just ruin it—they targeted us." Her studio, once a haven of creativity, was now a crime scene: canvases slashed, brushes scattered, a jar of turpentine spilled across the floor.
Elena's jaw clenched, her mind racing. The tabloid headlines, Victoria's leaks, Kessler's betrayal, and now this—each attack was a calculated blow to destabilize Byano's empire and their lives. Marcus was safe in his upstate therapy program, a small victory, but the anonymous threats—You can't save them all, Byano—loomed larger. Elena pulled Sophia into a hug, grounding them both. "We'll fix this, Soph. They're trying to break us, but they won't."
Sophia nodded, wiping her eyes. "I called the police. They're on their way. But El, this feels like Mom. Or someone she's paying."
Elena's blood ran cold. Victoria's gambit—leaking lies to the press, manipulating Marcus—had escalated to physical sabotage. She texted Byano: Soph's studio trashed. 'Norwood Lies' on her painting. We need you. His reply was instant: On my way. Stay safe.
The sisters worked to salvage what they could, stacking undamaged canvases, sweeping glass. Elena's mind drifted to her own trials—EcoThreads was hemorrhaging partners, her latest investor meeting canceled after the tabloid's fraud allegations. She'd built her brand on independence, repaying Byano's seed money with pride, but the "Norwood instability" narrative was choking her progress. Sophia, meanwhile, faced her own blow: a major art critic, swayed by the headlines, had posted a scathing review, calling her work "privileged posturing." The words stung, questioning her activism's authenticity.
Byano arrived, his face etched with fury and fatigue. He surveyed the damage, his eyes lingering on the defaced painting. "Sophia, I'm so sorry. This is my fight, not yours."
"No, Dad," Sophia said, her rebellion flaring. "It's our fight. They hit my art, Elena's business, Marcus's head. We're Norwoods—we don't back down."
Elena nodded, her resolve hardening. "Dad, I'm auditing Mom's accounts. If she's funding this, I'll find it. Harlan's got leads on Lydia Hale, right?"
Byano's voice was grim. "Yeah. The wire transfer from Apex to Lydia's account is solid, but we need more to tie it to Victoria. And the vandalism—cameras catch anything?"
Sophia shook her head. "Not yet. But I'm posting about this online. My followers will amplify it—show the world who's really lying."
The police arrived, taking statements, dusting for prints. Byano's security team swept the studio, finding a partial footprint in the spilled paint—size ten, male. Not Victoria, then, but a hired hand? Elena's mind churned, piecing together the pattern: Kessler's leaks, Lydia's meeting with Marcus, the brick, now this. Someone was orchestrating chaos, and Victoria was either the puppet or the puppeteer.
Back at the penthouse, the sisters strategized. Elena dove into financial records, cross-referencing Victoria's spending with known associates. Sophia drafted a social media post, her words raw: My studio was attacked. My art, my voice, defaced. But I won't be silenced. She hesitated, then added, The truth about the Norwoods is love, not lies. The post went viral, her activist network rallying, but it drew trolls too, echoing the tabloid's venom.
Byano watched his daughters, pride warring with guilt. His empire was their shield, but also their target. He called Harlan. "Any progress on the journalist's emails?"
"Close," Harlan said. "Found a server link to Langston's firm. And the footprint—it matches a known fixer, works for hire. We're tracking him."
Elena looked up from her laptop, her face pale. "Dad, I found something. A payment from Mom's account to a shell company, same day as the brick incident."
Byano's heart sank. The net was tightening, but so was the enemy's grip. As the sisters worked, a call from Dr. Carter interrupted: "Marcus is progressing, but he saw the headlines. He's fragile."
Cliffhanger: A new anonymous text to Sophia: Your art's just the start. Quit, or Elena's next.