The estate was quiet. Too quiet.
Emily moved through the halls like a shadow of steel, her presence more felt than seen. Every step she took was deliberate; every breath measured. Alexander trailed her, silent and vigilant, but she carried the weight of decision herself. Leo's cry was nowhere, yet she could feel him, somewhere close, like a heartbeat pulsing through the walls.
The music box had stopped spinning hours ago, but the effect lingered. Isabelle's touch was everywhere—intangible, mocking, the proof that she had infiltrated their sanctuary, their life, and their child.
Emily clenched her fists. Mothers fought with instinct, and she was no longer merely Emily Drake-Chen, protector of empire. She was predator incarnate.
Alexander spoke first, voice low:
"Do you have a plan?"
Emily's gaze didn't waver from the hallway ahead. Her eyes glinted in the dim security light, calculated, lethal.
