"Some are born great, some achieve greatness,
And some have greatness thrust upon them."
— William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
But what of those born second—
Who watch greatness given to another,
Who inherit the throne only after the favorite falls,
And who discover too late
That the crown was never meant for them at all?
That name shouldn't have been there.
A flicker danced through the dim lab, sending a shiver down the steel surfaces. One of the central screens blinked to life, its gentle glow brushing across Isabella's face in soft pulses—as if it were trying to catch her attention.
She stayed frozen. The message had shown up before. Same peculiar pattern. Same quiet defiance. She gazed at it, feeling an unexpected sense of familiarity this time.
This wasn't an error. It wasn't even a slip-up.
Someone had intentionally planted something in her system. It was purposeful. Hidden beneath a routine update, cleverly disguised to trick every surface protocol, except for the ones she had crafted herself.
And when she finally uncovered the signature, her stomach twisted—not in shock, but in recognition.
Lizzy.
Of course, it was her.
Always reaching into things she didn't understand, always pushing where she didn't belong.
This wasn't sabotage. It was arrogance. A child testing fire, assuming it won't burn, like touching a live wire, expecting no shock.
Isabella turned from the screen slowly, her jaw tightened.
"She thinks she can play with this," she said aloud, voice flat. "She doesn't even know what it is."
Her gaze drifted upward, not to the code, but beyond it—to a memory so sharp it felt like breath in winter.
Anna had stood in this room once, her voice low and precise, tracing invisible lines in the air as they debated design ethics and system thresholds.
Anna hadn't treated her like a subordinate, not like a tool. They'd built things together—clean logic, elegant frames, the architecture of clarity.
Anna understood restraint. Power wasn't something you reached for. It was something you chose not to use.
Lizzy... had never understood that.
Isabella's fingers moved across the keyboard, pulling up the access logs.
ACCESSED FILES:
A.GRANT/PERSONAL/CORRESPONDENCE_2021-2023A.GRANT/RESEARCH/CRYSTALSIGHT_ORIGINSA.GRANT/NOTES/SYSTEM_ARCHITECTUREA.GRANT/ARCHIVE/FOUNDATIONS
Isabella's breath caught at that last one.
"Foundations."
Anna had called it that—not "evidence," not "crimes," just "Foundations." A clinical term for a clinical documentation of how empires are actually built.
Anna had spent months compiling it. Code signatures that predated Sebastian's involvement. Development notes in handwriting that wasn't his. Correspondence with people whose names no longer appeared in GDI's official history.
A complete record of where CrystalSight had truly come from.
Not to weaponize. Not to expose.
Just to know.
Because Anna understood something Lizzy never had: knowledge was leverage, and leverage didn't have to be used to be valuable. Sometimes the most powerful move was simply knowing—and letting others know that you knew.
Isabella remembered the conversation, two years ago.
Anna had come to her office—casual, professional, nothing unusual. But there was something in her eyes. A weight.
"I found the original development logs," Anna had said. "From 1998. Before Father incorporated GDI."
Isabella had kept her expression neutral. "Old code often has historical artifacts."
"These aren't artifacts." Anna had pulled up a file on her tablet. "These are foundations. Thomas Reardon's algorithms. Marcus Chen's quantum frameworks. Your architecture."
A pause.
"He didn't invent CrystalSight. He assembled it."
Isabella had stayed quiet, waiting.
"I'm not going to expose it," Anna had said, and there was no hesitation in her voice. "That would be stupid. It would destroy the company's credibility, tank the stock, put thousands out of work—and for what? To prove Father isn't a solitary genius?"
She'd leaned back, thoughtful.
"Besides, if I exposed him, I'd be admitting that everything I'm about to inherit is built on... borrowed foundations. That my legitimacy comes from his, and his comes from people he erased."
Isabella had finally spoken. "Then why document it?"
Anna had smiled—sharp, calculated.
"Because knowledge is insurance. Because someday, someone might challenge my claim to GDI. A board coup. A hostile takeover. A legal battle. And when that happens, I'll have the complete truth—to use however I need to."
She'd stood.
"I'm not a revolutionary, Isabella. I'm a pragmatist. Father built something extraordinary, even if he didn't do it alone. I'm going to protect it. That's what heirs do."
That was Anna.
Clear-eyed. Strategic. Willing to live with moral complexity because purity was a luxury that leaders couldn't afford.
She'd known the truth. She'd documented it meticulously.
And then she'd locked it away and moved on to the business of actually running an empire.
Until two months later, when she died.
Isabella closed her eyes, the familiar weight settling on her chest.
"Domestic incident." That's what the report had said.
"Blunt force trauma." Clean, clinical, bureaucratic.
A partner—some venture capitalist Anna had been seeing. Charming in public. Controlling in private. The kind of man who couldn't handle a woman more successful than him, who turned his insecurity into violence.
No grand conspiracy. No corporate assassination. No calculated murder to protect secrets.
Just a man who'd hit a woman hard enough to kill her.
And Lizzy—Lizzy had missed the three calls Anna made that night. "Can you just call me back?"
Not because Anna was investigating dangerous truths. Not because she'd threatened to expose Sebastian.
Because she was trapped in a relationship that was destroying her, and she'd reached out to her sister for help.
And Lizzy hadn't answered.
Isabella had attended the small, private funeral. Watched Sebastian stand like a statue, grief carved into every line of his face. Watched Lizzy stand apart, hollow-eyed, silent.
Everyone had their own guilt to carry.
Sebastian's: I made her so focused on being strong that she couldn't ask for help.
Lizzy's: She called me. Three times. And I was too busy.
Isabella's: I taught her that power meant never showing weakness. And it killed her.
But guilt didn't change the facts.
Anna was gone. The throne was empty. And Lizzy—overlooked, underestimated Lizzy—had inherited everything.
Including Anna's "Foundations" archive.