Some families send flowers.
Some families send lawyers.
Mine?
She sends a slap.
I should've seen it coming.
Should've tasted it in the air like ozone before a storm.
But no—
I was too busy wiping the lipstick off my mouth from a kiss that was never supposed to be seen.
Too busy convincing myself the world hadn't just watched me lose control.
And too slow to notice that my mother's silence was more dangerous than my father's rage.
Because when Grace Thorne is quiet?
Someone's about to bleed.
The press conference is staged with cruel precision.
White marble steps. Gold-trimmed podiums. Every media outlet from D.C. to Dubai shoved into the courtyard of the Presidential estate like pigs in tailored suits.
Security lines the perimeter. Snipers on the roofs. Secret Service beneath umbrellas pretending they're not armed to the teeth.
Killian isn't beside me.
He was strategically reassigned to "internal intelligence review" — which is Aurelia code for "contain the liability."
