Chapter 2

When the ward door opened, I had just tucked the phone back under my pillow.

Lucas—Abraham's most important confidant—stood in the doorway, the twin thugs who never left his shadow behind him.

"Ma'am." He held a folder, his voice flat, his expression professionally cold. "Unfortunately, I need to inform you…"

"Per the emergency resolution of the family council, based on evidence that you betrayed the family, leaked confidential information, and harmed collective interests," he continued, "you are hereby formally expelled from the family. All family protection and resources, including the medical services here, will be terminated."

I leaned back against the headboard without speaking. The cramping ache in my abdomen came in waves.

Lucas stepped closer, bent slightly, and lowered his voice so only we could hear. "Please understand, ma'am. This… is all for the group's future."

I tugged at the corner of my mouth. The group's future. What a nice phrase.

This framing, this expulsion, this public humiliation—every bit of it was a pledge. Abraham's first offering of loyalty to Natalie Morrow, to the "Sterling princess" he believed she was.

"I understand." My voice was hoarse but calm. "Perfectly."

Lucas finally smiled, rewarding me like a "discarded asset" that knew its place. He straightened and flicked his hand. The twin thugs immediately moved up, taking positions on either side of me.

"I can walk on my own," I said.

The younger one—I remembered his name was Marco—only muttered, "Ms. Wilson, don't make this hard for us."

Ms. Wilson.

The alias I'd used for seven years. They were expelling me under that fake name, never realizing who was truly being thrown out of this building.

They lifted me as if escorting a traitor, practically carrying me out. At the hospital entrance, in a thin patient gown, I was dumped by the curb.

Once they were gone, I stood at the roadside and pulled out my phone from my coat's inner pocket—activating a hidden tracking and encrypted comms app.

Almost the moment the connection established, Naomi's voice came through—sharp, calm, exactly as it had been seven years ago.

"Naomi." My eyes swept over the massive billboard across the street, Natalie Morrow's bright smile splashed across it. My voice stayed level. "Terminate all support. Now."

"Gen?" She sounded surprised, but it flipped almost instantly into professional efficiency. On her end, rapid keyboard taps rattled.

Ten seconds. "Got it."

In the distance, the red indicator light on the hospital roof blinked through the smog.

"Get ready," I said. "This is only the beginning."

I ended the call. I flagged down a cab. I knew that the moment it turned the corner, the real show would start.

*

At the same time, in Mitchell Logistics' office, Abraham stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, whiskey in hand. Outside lay his docks, his cranes—his territory carved out over seven years.

"Next week's meeting with the Port Authority," he told the finance director behind him. "I want that new license—"

The door slammed open.

The operations chief burst in, face paper-white. "Boss, something happened. The Blue Channel—Customs just raided and seized the entire shipment!"

Abraham turned. "What?"

"And the accounts in Zurich," the finance director stared at his phone as it spiked wildly, voice trembling. "Frozen. All of them. At the same time."

The conference room went dead quiet.

Abraham set down his glass. "What does that mean? Call our people in Customs. Now!"

"Can't reach them," the operations chief swallowed. "Hamilton, Rodriguez… everyone's phone goes straight to voicemail."

"Boss… we can only hold out seven days at most…"

"Impossible!"

Abraham swept everything off the table and roared at him. "Find out." He ground out the word through his teeth. "Find out who did this! Now!"

*

The cab stopped in front of the apartment building where Abraham and I had lived for five years.

I paid and got out, walked into the lobby. The automatic doors slid open, warm air and the familiar scent of marble rolling over me. The doorman, Carlos, rose from behind the desk, his expression like he'd swallowed a fly.

"Mrs. Mitchell…" He rubbed his hands, avoiding my eyes. "Mr. Mitchell… and Ms. Morrow came this afternoon. They brought movers. They took… everything. And they said…" His voice dropped smaller and smaller. "You're not allowed upstairs anymore."

I nodded. As expected.

Of course they would. They could destroy everything that belonged to Genevieve Wilson—but anything that belonged to Genevieve Sterling, they couldn't touch by so much as a hair.

I turned. As I stepped out through the revolving door, a black Bentley glided soundlessly to the curb and stopped. The window lowered halfway. The man in the driver's seat gave me a slight nod—Sterling family.

I got in, took out the black phone, and dialed again. "Naomi. I want the full file on Abraham Mitchell. And Natalie Morrow—her real background."

Naomi answered evenly. "Top-level investigation protocol has been activated. Your grandfather, Mr. Sterling, has had contingency records in place for a long time. Our people began moving twenty minutes ago. Within seventy-two hours, you'll have a preliminary report."

"Also, the new ID documents, credit cards, and keys are in the manor safe."

Arthur Sterling. My grandfather. The man who had smashed his favorite porcelain vase in rage when I insisted on changing my name and leaving for love—and who, after I turned away, quietly paved every possible retreat for me.

A faint thread of warmth slid across the ice in my chest.

I looked out the window. The city's night flowed past, neon dragging long streaks across the glass.

"Naomi."

"Yes, miss?"

"How long have I been gone?"

A brief silence. "Seven years, four months, and twelve days, miss."

Seven years. Long enough.

"Tell Grandfather," I said. "I'm back."

"He's been waiting for you." For the first time, Naomi's voice carried the lightest, almost gentle ripple. "Welcome home, Genevieve."

Cold air poured through the window crack. In the distance, the apartment building I'd lived in for five years shrank, then vanished around a corner. Ahead, Oak Manor's lights surfaced in the night like a long-sleeping beast opening its eyes.

Goodbye, Gen.

Goodbye, naïve love—ridiculous trust.

Genevieve Sterling's revenge had just written its first note.

The best part was still to come.