Eleanor Prescott’s message was not a whisper in a hurricane; it was the silent, lethal click of a sniper’s scope finding its target. It wasn't a comfort. It was a command. A confirmation that this fight had escalated beyond corporate revenge into something far more elemental: a battle for legacy, for character, for the very definition of the Prescott name. It settled the chaos inside me, burning away the emotional turmoil and leaving behind the cold, clear fire of purpose.
I slept. A deep, dreamless, weaponized sleep.
I awoke before my alarm, a soldier on dawn patrol. The woman who had surrendered in Sterling's arms felt like a lifetime ago. In her place was the daughter of Alistair Davenport, armed and ready. I chose my armor with tactical precision: a bespoke pantsuit in a shade of cha
