As I got closer, the figures outside sharpened into brutal clarity.
Harris.
Still immaculate — blond hair perfectly styled, suit tailored to perfection, posture relaxed like he owned the ground beneath him.
And beside him —
Vasquez.
My father.
Older now.
Harder.
His face carved from stone and ambition, eyes dark and assessing as they scanned the mansion like predators evaluating prey.
My chest tightened violently.
Three years.
Three years since I had stood in front of them and refused their demands.
Three years since they tried to force me to divorce Ruslan and marry Harris — all to merge power, territory, and control into some grotesque alliance.
Ruslan had responded then with humiliation.
Not blood.
Not negotiation.
He had dismantled their leverage piece by piece.
And now —
They were back.
Standing on my lawn like trespassers who believed they had authority.
How had they bypassed the perimeter?
The security system was military-grade.
Nothing should have slipped through.
I stepped back from the glass slowly.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
Daphne was still kneeling beside her dollhouse, humming softly to herself, completely unaware that danger stood only meters away from where she played.
I moved quickly.
Quietly.
I lifted her into my arms.
Her romper was warm against my skin — soft cream cashmere, delicate pearl buttons pressing gently into my forearm.
