Scarlett has always known the house could bleed.
She feels it now—through the floors, the walls, the air itself—as if the Hawthorne estate has finally acknowledged the truth it was built to hide. Sirens claw closer, not police, not Mercers, but something quieter and far more dangerous. Clean forces. Contract forces.
People who do not announce themselves because history erases them afterwards.
Daniel is still breathing hard beside her. One of the operatives groans somewhere behind them. The marble is smeared with blood that is not hers.
That, more than anything, steadies her.
Michael Hawthorne turns with the decisiveness of a man who has just crossed a line he cannot uncross.
“Secure the west wing,” he orders calmly into his comm. “Protocol Blackthorn. No external cooperation.”
Sca
