Ano’s composure cracks. He leans forward, fury etching deep lines around his mouth. “You’re twisting this! You think you can rewrite history?”
“No, I’m exposing it! Just like you buried her!” The words explode from me, each syllable a weapon aimed at his carefulfacade. My hands shake, but my voice stays strong. “You buried her under marble and lies, under police reports that glossed over the bruises, under whispered rumors about her ‘instability.’”
The leather of his chair creaks as his fingers dig into the armrests. I see it in his face—the way my accusations strip away his delusions of control, of righteous authority. Each word hits like a hammer against the walls he’s built around his crimes.
“Every charity ball, every society photograph—they were just pretty wrapping paper around your brutality.” I step closer, forcing him to face the truth in my eyes. “Did you think I wouldn’t remember the sound of her crying? The way you’d lecture her about appearances while she covered her bruises with expensive foundation?”
His mask slips further, revealing the monster beneath. I watch him wrestle with the exposure, with having his carefully constructed narrative torn apart by the daughter he thought he’d silenced.
“You built this empire on her grave,” I continue, each word precise and cutting. “Her death wasn’t enough—you had to destroy other women too. Turn their bodies into profit, their lives into ledger entries.”
His composure fractures with each truth I hurl. The careful mask of control slips, revealing something desperate and wild beneath. I watch fury build in those cold eyes—the same look I remember from childhood, right before his rage would explode.
“You’re nothing but a spoiled child playing at journalism,” he spits, fingers white-knuckled around his crystal tumbler. “You think your little investigation will change anything? I built this empire! I control everything!”
The words echo off mahogany panels, his voice rising with each sentence. Sweat beads at his temple despite the room’s chill. I’ve never seen him so unraveled, so close to losing his iron grip on that carefully crafted image.
“Control?” I laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “Like you controlled Mother? You killed her the moment she showed a spark of hope, didn’t you?”
The crystal tumbler shatters against the floor. Amber liquid spreads across Italian marble like spilled blood. His face contorts, decades of practiced sophistication crumbling under the weight of exposed truth.
“You ungrateful—” He lunges forward, hands outstretched like claws. The movement is desperate and uncontrolled—so different from his usual calculated violence. His expensive cologne fills my nostrils as he reaches for me, the familiar scent triggering memories of countless terrors.
His hands are inches from my throat when I hear it—a slight scrape of movement beyond the study door. A sound so faint it could be imagination, but I know better. I’ve learned to read the shadows in this house of horrors.
My father’s face twists with something primal, his lips pulled back in a snarl. This is the monster beneath the Armani suit, the truth I’ve spent eight years trying to expose. All pretense of civilization is stripped away, leaving only raw, murderous intent.
His hands reach for my throat, but years of self-defense training kick in. I dodge, blood rushing in my ears as I think of Remy somewhere below us, suffering because of me. I need to buy time. Every second matters.
“You’re right about one thing,” I spit, backing away from his grasp. “I was too young then. Too weak to save her.” My voice cracks with raw emotion. “But I’m not that terrified little girl anymore.”
Ano’s face contorts with rage. “You’re still nothing! A pathetic reminder of her weakness!”
He lunges again, but I sidestep, letting his momentum carry him forward. The Persian rug slides beneath his expensive shoes. “Mother wasn’t weak,” I snap. “She was brave enough toplan an escape and bring me with her. That’s why you killed her, isn’t it?”
His fist connects with my jaw, pain exploding across my face. Each moment I keep him here is another chance for Declan’s team to reach Remy.
“You destroyed her,” I continue, circling him now. “But you won’t destroy me. This ends today—for her, for every woman you’ve trafficked, for that little girl who found her mother’s body hanging from that chandelier when she knew that you were the one who ended her life.”
He charges like a bull, ancient books crashing from shelves as I dodge. His control has completely shattered. I block his next swing, and my body moves on instinct. The impact jars my bones, but I don’t yield.
“Look at you,” I taunt, knowing it will fuel his rage. “All that power, all that control—stripped away by the daughter you couldn’t break.”
He grabs my hair, slamming me against the desk. Pain shoots through my spine, but I drive my elbow back, catching him in the solar plexus. He stumbles, wheezing.
“I’ve spent all my professional years preparing for this moment,” I growl, straightening despite the pain. “Gathering evidence, building strength, waiting to tear down everything you’ve built.”
His next attack is wild and desperate. I duck under his arm, landing a solid hit to his kidney. He howls in pain and fury, but I press on. “This is for Mother. For every tear, every bruise, every silent scream you forced her to swallow.”
We grapple across his study, this room that once held so much terror for me. Each blow we exchange is charged with decades of pain and rage. I refuse to back down, matching his strength with a fury born of justice long denied.
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs as Ano slams me against the wall. Pain blooms across my back, spots dancing in my vision. His hand wraps around my throat, pressing just enough to make breathing difficult.
“Look at you now,” he sneers, yanking my bag from my shoulder. “Still that same pathetic little girl, thinking she can play in a man’s world.”
I struggle against his grip, but decades of rage fuel his strength. My head throbs where it hit the wall, each breath a battle against his crushing hold.
He rifles through my bag with his free hand, pawing through papers and files like a predator savoring its kill. His smile grows wider, more twisted with each document he discovers.
