"Victoria's dead."
The words came out flat. Factual.
Joy went still.
"How?" she asked.
Now was not the time to lie to the woman I loved.
"She ... she shot herself."
Joy's breath hitched once, sharp and small.
Then she nodded.
That was it. Just a nod.
I watched her carefully, searching for the breakdown, the collapse, the thing I'd seen in people before when grief hit.
But Joy just stood there, absorbing it like she'd absorbed everything else—quietly, internally, holding herself together through sheer will.
"Okay," she said finally.
"Joy—"
"I'm okay," she said, cutting me off gently. "I mean ... I'm not. But I will be."
I didn't believe her.
But I also knew from experience that stoicism now didn't mean peace later.
Grief had its own timeline.
"Stay with Portia," I said. "And the others. I need to?—"
"Go," she said. "I know."
I kissed her forehead, lingering longer than I meant to, then forced myself to let go.
The war room was full.
Every Dane in the house had gathered—Montana boys on one side of the massive table, Charleston boys on the other. Silas stood near the door, arms crossed, expression grim.
The head seat at the table sat empty.
Waiting.
When Dad walked in, exhaustion carved into every line of his face, every eye turned to him.
He didn't go to the head of the table.
The symbolism wasn't lost on anyone.
Instead, he stopped at the foot, hands braced on the back of a chair, and looked at all of us.
"I've spoken to The Vanguard," he said without preamble. "Told them about Victoria's schemes, about why she did it. Explained that we—my sons, Dominion Hall—are not a threat."
He paused, swallowing hard.
