Samantha's penthouse was silent.
Not cold—just controlled, curated, a fortress built in glass and iron.
New York glittered beneath her windows like a kingdom she'd carved from her own bones.
A soft knock.
She already knew who it was.
When she opened the door, Steve Bradley stood there — impeccable suit, silver at his temples, posture straight as the empire he once built. His presence filled the room the way thunder fills a sky: quiet until it decides not to be.
He looked at her for a long moment.
His daughter.
His weapon.
His fear.
"Samantha."
"Dad."
He stepped inside. No guards. No entourage. Only the weight of what both had become.
Steve looked around the penthouse — the minimalist design, the locked drawer where she kept Ally's last remnants, the void where softness used to live.
"You've done well," he said at last.
"More than well."
A beat.
Then, with a rare softness:
"You've made me proud."
Samantha didn't smile. But something in her shoulders eased.
