People think power protects.
They're wrong.
Power is a prison with invisible bars.
And I was born inside it.
We reach the edge of the presidential estate by nightfall.
I'm dressed in black. Not couture. Tactical. Killian's idea.
My hair's pinned tight. No earrings. No heels.
The sky above Aurelia is heavy with fog and secrets.
And somewhere beneath it, my father is still playing God behind bulletproof glass.
We slip past the perimeter.
The southeast cameras go dead for exactly twenty-two seconds every hour. Killian timed it.
We don't speak.
The silence between us isn't hostile anymore.
It's survival.
I scale the ivy-covered side wall like I've done it before. Because I have. When I was fifteen, escaping the estate to meet Jackson behind the stables.
This time is different.
This time, I'm breaking in, not breaking out.
The West Wing is a fortress.
And inside it — a private vault hidden beneath the executive library, behind a two-way mirror and a biometric-locked elevator.
It's where my father hides things he doesn't want the Pentagon to see.
Things he doesn't even trust his press team to bury.
I only know about it because I saw the blueprints once — in a locked drawer I was never meant to open.
But the code burned itself into my mind like a prophecy.
Now I'm standing in front of the mirror.
It's two stories tall. Framed in blackened steel.
Looks ordinary.
But I know better.
I lift my hand and press my palm flat to the glass.
"Thorne," I whisper.
The glass hums.
Flickers.
Then vanishes.
Revealing a panel of numbered buttons.
I punch in the code.
8 – 1 – 9 – 6 – 4.
My mother's birthdate.
Figures.
The elevator opens.
Killian stays behind — in the shadows — ready to intercept anything that moves.
I descend alone.
It's colder than I remember.
Clinical.
The vault is lit by a single spotlight overhead. It smells like old paper, steel, and something far more dangerous: truth.
The walls are lined with black boxes. Thousands. All identical. All unmarked.
Except one.
Box 3A – 7.
It's red.
I reach for it.
Pull it down.
Inside is a leather-bound folder, thick and heavy with classified files.
Stamped across the front:
OPERATION: WHITE DOVE
Eyes Only — Executive Authorization Required
I open it.
First page: a list.
Same as before — kill targets, coded aliases, political rivals.
But this list is longer.
More brutal.
Some names are already crossed out.
Some I recognize.
Senators. CEOs. Whistleblowers. Even the head of a humanitarian relief agency.
But then I see it—
My mother's name.
Not Phoebe Thorne.
Genevieve Laurent.
Alias: "Saint."
Status: Pending Termination.
I stagger back.
No. That's not possible.
My mother's been dead since I was thirteen.
A plane crash. Off the coast of Amalfi. Declared an accident. State funeral. Closed casket.
But this says otherwise.
"Faked death. Relocated. Witness to Vault Leak. Cleared for removal if reactivated."
She's alive.
Killian was right.
She knows everything.
The vault spins around me like a hurricane of ghosts.
But it gets worse.
Page three: financials.
Private accounts linked to Thorne shell corporations.
Transfers traced to arms dealers.
Weapons dumped in warzones. Dictators funded under diplomatic noise.
And beneath it all — a paper trail leading straight to the Presidential Discretionary Fund.
A black ledger.
A war economy built on the backs of civilians and secrets.
And signed — twice — in ink I know too well.
President Harrison Thorne.
My father.
My whole life, I thought he was ruthless.
Now I know he's monstrous.
"Phoebe," a voice calls down the elevator shaft.
Killian.
I shove the files into my jacket.
"Coming!" I shout.
But before I can move—
The room shifts.
A mechanical hiss. A soft click behind me.
A camera.
Tiny. Hidden.
Now open.
Now watching.
I turn just in time to hear Killian's voice echo down again.
This time sharper. Urgent.
"Phoebe — we need to move. Now."
I don't hesitate.
I leap back into the elevator.
Clutching the folder like a live bomb.
The ride up feels longer. Slower. My breath catches in my throat.
When the doors open, Killian's waiting.
Eyes wild.
Gun drawn.
"We need to disappear. They know."
I don't ask how.
I just nod.
We sprint.
Back through the corridors.
Out through the service tunnel.
Across the southern lawn.
And just as we reach the wall—
BOOM.
The estate behind us erupts.
Not flames. Not fire.
Just a flash.
A sonic pulse.
An EMP.
I drop to the ground.
Ears ringing.
Killian yanks me behind a hedge, his body shielding mine.
My hands grip his jacket.
"What was that?" I gasp.
His jaw is clenched. "Vault self-destruct. They knew we went in. They erased the evidence."
I shake my head. "No. I have it."
I show him the folder.
He looks stunned. Like he thought I wouldn't take it. Like he thought I'd freeze.
"You did it," he says, voice hoarse.
But I don't care about that.
All I care about is the name on that file.
"My mother's alive," I whisper.
He stiffens. "Are you sure?"
I open to the page. Show him.
He scans it.
His mouth tightens.
"I know that alias," he says.
"What?"
"Saint. Geneva Laurent. That was a handler name. She wasn't just a First Lady. She was covert. One of the originals."
The air thickens.
"She was working against my father," I breathe.
"She was the leak."
"And he buried her."
Killian nods once.
"And now," he adds, "he knows we know."
We don't run this time.
We move.
Deliberate.
Fast.
Street by street.
Until we're blocks from the estate.
And then Killian stops.
Grabs my wrist.
Eyes locked on mine.
"If your mother's alive," he says, "they'll move her before we get close."
"Then we get closer faster."
"No."
"We can't wait—"
"No." His voice is steel. "We don't go in blind."
I yank my hand back.
"Then give me a better plan, soldier."
His face goes hard.
And he says—
"We make your father think you're dead."
The words slice the air clean in half.
I stare.
"What?"
"We fake it. We stage a hit. You vanish. No traces. No trail."
"And then what?"
"Then we find your mother before he does."
"And if he already has her?"
Killian doesn't blink.
"Then we get her out. Or die trying."
Phoebe finds incriminating intel in her father's vault — including proof that her mother, long presumed dead, was the original White Dove leak. As alarms trigger, the only way to survive now is to fake her own death.