The next morning broke with the kind of sky that didn’t match the mood in the Cross estate—clear, golden, almost mocking in its calm. The world outside was peaceful, but inside, the air hummed with tension.
Mya woke to the distant sound of raised voices downstairs. Not angry—strategic. Cross voices always sounded like that when something was about to shift.
She sat up, her silk robe sliding from her shoulders as she stretched, taking a moment to breathe before the day caught her. It had been weeks since she’d felt control slipping through her fingers like this, and now that it was back—now that Damon’s name was finally tied to the digital smear campaign—she wanted to see it through to the end.
She wanted justice, not revenge.
Though, truthfully, she wouldn’t complain if it came as both
