The Cross family estate had never felt so tense.
Usually, the grand sitting room was a sanctuary—a warm space lined with tall windows, oak bookshelves, and soft lamplight that made the place feel like safety incarnate. But tonight, every light was on. Every curtain drawn. The air itself felt sharp, charged with purpose.
Mya sat on the edge of the couch, knees together, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles ached. Around her, the brothers stood or paced, each in their own rhythm of thought. Keith and Trina sat nearby, quiet but alert, their presence grounding her.
Alexander stood near the fireplace, phone in hand, posture as straight as a blade. “The story’s gained traction in forty-eight outlets,” he said evenly. “Mostly online tabloids, but three of them have credibility—Daily Wire, Ce
