The dinner disaster never happens. Mira's chicken turns out perfect, and for one evening, nobody at the table talks about consortiums, scoring systems, or missing architects of an exploitative empire. We just eat, laugh at Renn's exaggerated stories, and let the ordinary warmth of the evening remind us what we've actually been fighting to protect.
The peace lasts eleven days.
I'm reviewing a routine contract dispute at my desk when a courier drops an envelope in front of me, no Vantage seal this time, no anonymous formatting. Just a plain cream envelope with my name written in the same elegant handwriting from the note Yusuf delivered months ago.
I open it carefully, Talia leaning over the moment she notices my expression shift.
*Mr. Arden. I believe it's time we spoke directly. Archiv
