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Elena knows none of it, and I intend to keep it that way.

"Why did they bring six pairs of shoes?" she asks.

"Because you own them."

"I own considerably more than six."

"Then be grateful for restraint."

She narrows her eyes. "Did you tell them what to bring?"

"I told them to bring what you need."

"I asked for clothes, my laptop and two folders."

"And you received them."

"I also received enough underwear to survive a minor apocalypse."

I look at the garment bag.

"Preparedness matters."

Her mouth twitches despite herself. "You're impossible."

"Yet here you are."

"Against several better instincts."

She leaves the dressing room and walks toward the investigation room with coffee in one hand and a folder beneath her arm. I watch until she disappears around the corner, then return to my phone.

Evander's message arrived five minutes ago.

Mother left work. Security following. Nothing unusual.

I delete it.

After what Elena and I found yesterday, I'm no longer willing to assume anyone connected to her is irrelevant. OB6 has spent years operating inside structures the Crown believed secure. They knew Petros had become a liability before his death became public. They knew where Elena and I would be when the car came for us.

And now we know they've accumulated hundreds of millions.

That changes everything.

Money at that scale buys access. It buys information. It buys loyalty from people who insist they cannot be bought until someone discovers the correct number.

I have no idea whose number OB6 has already discovered. Until I do, I trust very few people. Unfortunately, Elena believes trust is something that should involve consent.

She's about to discover we disagree.

The explosion comes at three seventeen.

I'm in my office with Evander and two of my financial advisers, reviewing companies Elena identified as possible collection points, when my office door opens without a knock.

Elena stands there holding an empty file box. Not a folder. Not a laptop. An empty box.

Evander takes one look at her and mutters, "Fuck."

My advisers wisely become fascinated with the table.