DAMIAN.

The metallic tang of blood still clung to my clothes as I stepped out of the SUV, the Woodley night air doing little to wash away the adrenaline buzzing in my veins. Vanessa's lifeless eyes stared back at me in my mind. It was satisfying, but not enough. Killing her was like swatting a fly; the swarm was still out there. Maybe others are sniffing around Atlas's edges. And Ava... God, Ava. She was the real storm brewing in my chest.

I wiped my hands on my pants, the faint smear of red a reminder of the chaos. Noah was silent beside me, his jaw set like he was chewing on his own demons. "That was too clean," I muttered, scanning the dark streets. "Vanessa didn't act alone. Someone's pulling strings." He nodded, eyes flicking to his phone.

"Rico's digging. But we need to lock down the crew. No loose ends."

We piled into the jet, the hum of the engines a temporary lull. My thoughts drifted to Ava, her scent still on my skin from last night, her whispers echoing in my ear. But I wasn't walking away again. Not this time.

As the plane lifted off, my phone buzzed. A text from Ava

"Heard about Woodley. Are you okay? Come over. We need to talk."

My grip tightened. Talk? Or more? Either way, danger was closing in, and she was right in the crosshairs.

I leaned back in the leather seat, the vibration of the engines thrumming through my bones, but it did nothing to dull the edge in my mind. Vanessa's death replayed in my mind, the way her head snapped back, the spray of blood misting the air, the thud of her body hitting the floor. It should have felt like closure, a clean-cut severing of one more threat from the tangled web around Atlas. But satisfaction eluded me. Her eyes, wide and glassy in that final moment, mocked me. She was a pawn, elevated by her own greed, but pawns don't move without a hand guiding them. Who was the real player? Some upstart smells weakness in our ranks after the Club Eden fire?

I glanced at Noah across the aisle. He stared out the window into the black void, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on his knee. His recent distractions and the way he had snapped orders during the hit made me curious.

"Are you good?" I asked, my voice low enough not to carry to Rico and the others dozing in the back.

He turned, his eyes shadowed. "As good as it gets after torching a club and dropping bodies. You?"

I snorted, "Alive. That's the bar these days."

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed again in my pocket. It was from the crew updating me about the fire at the club. When I turned back to face Noah, he had shut his eyes and was snoring softly. Though I wanted to address his situation, yet I ignored it for now.

The flight dragged, and I closed my eyes without sleeping until the jet touched down in LA with a jolt, the runway lights streaking.

We hopped off the jet in silence, and Noah clapped my shoulder. "Get some rest. Tomorrow,"

"Yeah," I muttered, but the rest was the last thing on my mind. I slid into my black Audi, the engine purring to life as I peeled out toward Ava's penthouse. The fire at Eden replayed in my head. I had watched the flames devouring the structure of my investments as it went up in smoke. We may have contained it and paid off the right officials, but the hit stung. It was a message that we had a mark on Atlas. And now, with Vanessa's blood on my hands, I wondered if I had escalated too far.

I drove into Ava's building, a sleek home, and I valet-parked, nodding to the security guard who knew me by sight. The elevator ride up felt eternal until the soft chime at the penthouse level echoed my unease. I rapped on her door; the sound rang through the quiet hallway.

No answer. I knocked again, louder. Silence.

"Ava?" I called, pressing my ear to the wood. Nothing. My gut twisted into a familiar knot, the kind that signaled trouble. I tried the handle and realized it was locked. Fishing out the spare key she had given me that morning, I hesitated. Then I decided I had no choice. I turned the key, and the lock clicked open.

The penthouse greeted me with her floral perfume mixed with the faint citrus of her favorite candles, but it felt abandoned.

"Ava?" I called again, stepping inside, my boots thudding on the marble floor. The living room sprawled before me, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering skyline, plush couches where we had spent tangled nights, a half-empty wine glass on the coffee table. There was no sign of her.

I checked the kitchen, Nothing, then I walked to the bedroom, the bed was made, and the closets were undisturbed. Everything was neatly placed. I started to feel panic flicker, but I tamped it down. She was probably out, I told myself. Maybe she had gone to a late fitting or a meeting with her agents.

But her text had said, "Come over." I pulled out my phone to dial her number. It rang once, twice, then straight to voicemail. "The number you have reached is not in service."

What the hell?

Disconnected? Ava lived on her phone for contracts, agents, and endless networking. She wouldn't cut it off without reason. I redialed it, and the result was the same. My uneasiness bloomed into full alarm.

Something was wrong. I paced back to the living room, my eyes scanning for clues. That was when I saw it. A note on the coffee table, propped against the wine glass.

Damian,

Heading to Paris early for the gala. I needed space to think. Don't worry, I'll call when I land. We can talk then.

Love, Ava

Space? From what? The previous night, she had clung to me like I was her anchor.

"There's something I need to tell you," she'd said in her text earlier. Now this? The note felt off. It was too abrupt. Paris was on her itinerary, sure, but early? And disconnecting her line? That screamed evasion, or worse, coercion.

I crumpled the paper and in my fist, Vanessa's death should have bought us time, but what if it triggered something else? What if someone got to her first? Using her as leverage against Zane, against me?

I sank onto the couch, the leather creaking under my weight. Standing abruptly, I pocketed the note and strode to the window, staring at the city below. I needed answers. Zane.

He would be aware of her schedule and contingencies. But calling him meant igniting his protectiveness and our history. Screw it. Ava was worth the explosion.

I dialed his phone, the line ringing as I paced. Zane answered on the third, his voice clipped. "Damian. If this is about that damn story..."

Story? "What story?" I cut in confusion, sharpening my tone.

A pause, then Zane's voice came up, "You haven't seen it? Some hack journalist dropped a bomb online on Atlas. Ties us to the cartel. It's blowing up, and our stocks are dipping. Sienna's handling damage control with the feds, but if you're calling to bitch about exposure..."

"Shut up about the story," I snapped, my pulse spiking. A leak? Now? But that could wait. "This isn't about that. Ava's missing."

Zane's voice went up a notch, "What the fuck do you mean, missing?"

I relayed it to him, informing him about her text, the note, the disconnected line, the empty penthouse. "She texted me after Woodley, said come over, we need to talk. I get here, and she's gone. Paris? Bullshit. She was spooked earlier, like she had something big to spill."

Zane's breathing rasped over the line. "You went to her again? After I told you..."

"Save the lecture," I growled, my free hand balling into a fist. "This isn't about us. Someone's after her."

"You think I don't know the risks?" Zane roared, "She's my sister, Damian! I built this empire to protect her, and you drag her into the dirt with your bullshit romance. If she's gone because of you..."

"Because of me?" Fury ignited, hot and blinding. I slammed my palm against the window, the glass vibrating. "I've been the one shielding her while you're off playing kingpin with Sienna! You think locking her away keeps her safe? She's out there building her life, and threats follow because of Atlas, our Atlas!"

Zane's retort came like a whip. "Don't twist this. You crossed the line years ago, and I let it slide because you're family. But if Ava's hurt, if this is payback for Vanessa or that fire..."

"The fire was a hit on us all!" I shouted back, pacing faster, the room closing in. "Eden burned because someone's testing our edges. Vanessa was part of it, but killing her doesn't end it. Ava knew something she tried to tell me. If you had listened instead of swinging fists "

"Listened? To you screwing my sister behind my back?" Zane thundered, "You're supposed to be my brother, Damian. Loyal. But you chose her over the code!"

I stopped dead, my chest heaving. "The code? That's your excuse? I chose the brotherhood once and walked away from her for you. You know what, Zane? I regretted it every day. She's not a prize, Zane and if you can't see that, if you let your ego blind you."

"Ego?" He laughed, cutting me off. "This is survival. Atlas stands because we don't let personal shit fracture us. You want her? Fine. But not at the cost of everything we've built. Get your head straight, or you're out."

The threat hung, a blade poised. My rage pulsed in my temples. "Out? After all I've bled for this? You'd throw me away like trash?"

"If it comes to that, yes." Zane's tone hardened, unyielding. "Now, focus. We find Ava. Ask Rico to pull strings at the airport. If she's in Paris, we will confirm. If not..."

"We tear the city apart," I finished, my voice was steady despite the storm inside. With Ava gone, the aftermath of raining down fire and spilling blood had just begun.

The call ended with a click, leaving me in silence. I stared at the phone as Zane's annoying words echoed through my ears. I fired off texts to Rico to track Ava Sinclair's Paris flight manifests, phone pings, everything. Emphasizing how urgent it was. Then I grabbed my keys, slamming the penthouse door behind me. Whatever came next, I would face it...for her.

AVA.

I woke up to a throbbing ache that pulsed through my skull, each throb sending shards of pain radiating down my neck. The world was pitch black, forced by something tight and unyielding wrapped around my eyes.

It was a rough fabric and scratchy as it bit into my skin where it pressed against my temples. My mouth felt dry, and when I tried to swallow, I tasted a metallic tang on my tongue. Blood, maybe, from biting my lip or cheek during whatever had happened.

Panic flickered at the edges of my mind, but I shoved it down, forcing myself to breathe steadily. Through my nose, I smelt stale air, laced with dust and rusty paint or chemicals.

I shifted, or tried to, and that was when reality hit me. My wrists were bound behind my back, thick ropes digging into my skin with every twitch; the fibers were coarse. My ankles were similarly restrained, tied to what felt like the legs of a chair, wooden and splintered under my probing heels. The chair itself was hard, probably metal or old wood, creaking faintly as I tested my bonds.

How did I get here?

The question clawed at me, demanding answers. I pieced it together slowly, fragments of my memory surfacing through the haze of pain. I had been in my penthouse waiting for Damian. My heart had raced at the thought of seeing him again.

I had paced the living room, wine glass in hand, the rich cabernet doing little to calm my nerves when I heard the knock. I had assumed it was him, early as always when it mattered. I had smoothed my dress, having chosen the sleek black one that hugged my curves, and opened the door with a smile ready on my lips.

But it wasn't Damian. And everything happened fast, a gloved hand swinging something heavy at me, was it a pipe? A baton? It hit against the side of my head. Stars exploded behind my eyes, and then I blacked out.

Now, there I was. Tied, blindfolded, vulnerable.

My breath quickened despite my efforts, and I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my spine, soaking into the fabric of my dress. The room was cold; it gave me the kind of chill that seeped into my bones. There were no windows, either, so I could sense its faint glow seeping through the blindfold. Was I underground, maybe? Or in a basement or warehouse? The air had that musty undertone, making me feel it was more like forgotten storage. The faint echoes of the seat bounced when I shifted, suggesting high ceilings or empty space around me.

I tugged at the ropes again, subtly, testing for give. None. It had been professionally knitted tightly, but not cutting through my blood circulation yet. Whoever had done this knew what they were doing. Not some amateur grudge from the fashion world, more tied to the Atlas.

Then I heard heavy footsteps, echoing from somewhere to my left. My heart slammed against my ribs, but I forced my face to remain neutral, lifting my chin even in blindness. Show no fear. I was a Calloway-Sinclair; strength ran in our veins. Zane had taught me that, drilling it into me since the aftermath of our parents' deaths. And Damian... he would come. He always did.

The footsteps stopped close, too close. I could smell his sweat with a hint of cologne and the heat radiating from his body, making the air thicker.

"You're awake," he said in a muffled voice, distorted by what sounded like a mask. His voice was deep and gravelly, with an edge that sent a shiver racing down my arms. It was filtered electronically to hide his identity. Smart.

I didn't respond immediately, letting the silence stretch while I gathered my thoughts. Curiosity burned in me, sharper than the fear of my state. Who was he? What did he want? Where were we? Knowing the details could be my weapon, to be used as leverage for my escape.

He chuckled, a low rumble that echoed oddly in the space. "Playing tough? Good. Makes this more interesting."

His fingers brushed my face roughly. It was gloved giving me a scratch and I flinched despite myself. He untied the blindfold with deliberate slowness, as if savoring my anticipation. When the fabric fell away, I blinked against the sudden dim light.

It was not pitch black after all; there was a single bulb hung overhead, swaying faintly, casting our reflection across the cracked concrete walls. The room was gray, stained with rusted pipes running along the ceiling. There was a metal door opposite me with a small, barred window high up. There was no furniture except my chair and a rickety table in the corner, holding a few tools, duct tape, zip ties, and a phone. Warehouse, definitely. Abandoned, by the dust motes dancing in the light. The air hummed with distant traffic, suggesting we were on the outskirts of the city, maybe an industrial district.

My eyes locked on him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black tactical pants, a jacket and boots that screamed military gear. The mask covered his entire face, black fabric with mesh over the eyes and a voice modulator built in, distorting his words into something mechanical, inhuman. The gloves hid his hands, leaving no skin visible.

Anonymous and Professional.

"Who are you?" I asked, as my pulse raced with curiosity. I needed to know, to probe for weaknesses.

He tilted his head, the mask's blank stare unnerving. "Doesn't matter who I am. What matters is what I want."

I leaned forward as much as the ropes allowed, ignoring the bite into my wrists. "Humor me. You went through the trouble of kidnapping me, it must be personal. Old grudge? Someone from Zane's past?"

He paused, then let out another chuckle, this one laced with amusement. He pulled up a folding chair, the metal scraping against the floor, and sat across from me, legs spread wide, letting his arms rest on his knees. He was close enough that I could see the faint reflection of the bulb in the mesh eyes.

"Curious little thing, aren't you? Fine. Call me... Echo. Fitting, don't you think? My voice bounces back, hides the truth."

Echo. Theatrical. He wanted to play games. I could use that.

"Echo, then. Where are we? This place looks like it's seen better days. Old factory? Storage unit?"

He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. "You've got sharp eyes for a model. This is an abandoned warehouse on the edge of LA. Used to store auto parts back in the day. Now? Perfect for conversations like this. Quiet. Isolated. No one hears screams."

He had added the threat intentionally, but I didn't flinch. Instead, I scanned the room again, noting details of a faint drip from a pipe in the corner, the water pooling on the floor, the scuff marks near the door, a small vent high on the wall, too narrow to crawl through but maybe for sound.

"Screams? You don't strike me as the type to get your hands dirty without reason. What's the endgame, Echo? Money?"

He stood abruptly, pacing a slow circle around me, his boots thudding rhythmically. I twisted my head to follow, refusing to let him out of sight. "Smart girl. It's simple. Your brother, Zane's got something I want. Power to control this territory. The Atlas empire's got fingers in every shipment and investment. I want a piece. A big piece. He trades it for you, or..."

"Or what?" I pressed. Fear coiled in my gut, but I masked it with a raised eyebrow and a tilt of my head. "You will kill me? Come on, give me details. I'm curious to know how a guy like you ends up playing kidnapper? Was this hired or a personal stake?"

He stopped behind me, his gloved hand landing on my shoulder, squeezing just enough to make me tense. "Personal stake? Maybe. Zane's stepped on a lot of toes building that throne. Mine included. As for you... Let's say you're the leverage. Pretty face, losing you would break him."

"I see"

"And if he doesn't play ball?" His fingers tightened, sending pain shooting through my shoulder. "I'll make sure you regret being born a Calloway. We will start with the fingers, maybe. Or that flawless skin. Scars on a model's body don't photograph well on runways, right?"

I swallowed hard, the image of my hands mangled flashed through my head, which would leave my career in ruins. But I pushed back with words, "Fingers and skin ugh? Sounds quite messy. You're too clean for that. I See the tactical gear and modulator meaning you have a military background or are ex-special forces. Or are you just a wannabe playing dress-up?"

He released my shoulder with a shove, circling back to face me. The mask hid his expression, but his posture stiffened. Had I hit a nerve? "Wannabe? Cute. I have seen more action than your brother's cartel dreams. I have served in places that would make you puke. Now? I work freelance because it pays better. Why? Think you can talk your way out?"

I met his mesh gaze, unblinking. "Maybe. Or maybe I just like knowing my enemies. This warehouse, how long have you had it? Did you scout my penthouse too? That knock was precise. You knew I had opened for Damian."

He crossed his arms, leaning against the table. "Damian Pierce. Your knight in shining armor. Yeah, I know about him. That was sloppy of you, letting him get close. But useful since it keeps Zane off-balance. As for scouting... just a few days. Your routines are predictable, model girl. Fittings, photoshoots, that fancy car. Easy."

Days. The word chilled me. I had felt watched and had dismissed it as paranoia from the threats. "Who hired you? Vanessa's dead, I assume, after Woodley. Spill it, Echo. I'm tied up, what's the harm?"

He laughed, genuinely this time, the modulator warping it into something eerie. "Vanessa? That bitch was small-time. Stirred the pot, sure, but she's out. This? Bigger fish. Let's just say your brother's empire has cracks, and I'm the wedge. No, this is fresh blood. New player wanting in on LA's game."

New player.

I leaned forward, ropes chafing. "Fresh blood. Intriguing. What's their angle?"

He pushed off the table, closing the distance until his mask was inches from my face. I could smell the synthetic fabric, feel his breath through the mesh. "Personal because Zane took the territory from them. Doesn't matter. They want payback. And you were just the sweet famous bait."

I held his gaze, "And if Zane pays? You would let me walk? Or is this a setup to kill me anyway and frame someone else?"

He straightened, pacing again. "If he pays, you walk. I'm a professional, not a psycho. But if he stalls..." He trailed off, gesturing to the tools on the table. "We improvise."

"Professional. So, what's your story, Echo? How does a soldier end up kidnapping models?"

He stopped, turning sharply. "You talk too much." But there was a crack in his voice, the modulator failing to hide it fully. "Now I take jobs that pay. Simple."

I softened my tone, probing gently. "Lost someone close?"

"Shut up." He slammed a fist on the table, the tools rattling. But he didn't move away. "You don't get to psychoanalyze me."

"Why not? We're stuck here. Might as well chat. Are there any cameras in this room? Escape routes? Or are you flying solo?"

"Solo. No cams. Door's bolted, reinforced. No windows. You're not going anywhere, pretty face."

Solo. Perfect.

I filed it away. "Impressive setup. How long do you plan to keep me? Days? Weeks?"

"Long as it takes. Zane gets the demand soon. I will make the phone call. He trades, or..."

I nodded, feigning calm. "Or I suffer. Got it. But why me? Why not hit Zane directly?"

"You're softer and famous. The media frenzy that would follow if you vanished would pressure him."

"Fair. One more, why use the mask? Afraid I will recognize you?"

He chuckled darkly. "Smart. But no, the mask is insurance. Faces mean complications."

Finally, he stood. "Enough. Rest. Demands go out soon."

As he redid the blindfold, I whispered, "Echo? Thanks for the chat."

He paused, then tied it tightly. His footsteps retreated after slamming the door.

I was alone again. I exhaled shakily. Was I scared? Yes. But armed with knowledge. And hope that my brother and lover would rescue me before it was too late.

NOAH.

"Oh shit" I exclaimed as the roar of the press corps hit me as soon as Audrey and I stepped into the Atlas HQ lobby. Flashes popped from a dozen cameras, with microphones thrust forward while their voices overlapped in a cacophony of demands.

"Mr. Bennette, is it true Atlas is a front for cartel operations?"

"What do you say to the allegations of money laundering?"

"Have the authorities been contacted?"

The air was thick with the scent of their freaky desperation, the kind that clung to reporters chasing a career-making scoop. I scanned the crowd, all of them, circling what they thought was a fresh kill.

Harvey's story had dropped, painting us as the villains. Zane at the helm of a criminal syndicate, me as the shadowy enforcer, Damian the strategist with blood on his hands, Ethan and Liam the muscle making it the story that could bury us. Now, the building buzzed with the chaos of employees whispering in corners, our phones ringing off the hook, and the security team barking orders to keep the horde at bay.

Audrey Movitch stood beside me, her posture straight in her tailored blazer and skirt, her hair pulled into a tight bun. As Atlas's PR head, she had been Zane's first call when the shit hit the fan.

"Follow my lead," she'd murmured in the elevator. I nodded, shoving down the storm in my gut. Where was Harvey now? I'd tried her number three times on the drive-over, and it went straight to voicemail because the line was disconnected. The guys watching her apartment had radioed an hour ago, informing me that they had lost sight on her. She slipped out the back. All I could think of was to know if she was safe. Or running from the fallout she had ignited?

We pushed through to the podium Zane had hastily set up in the lobby, a makeshift barrier against the onslaught. Audrey stepped up first, her smile professional, disarming. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. I'm Audrey Movitch, Director of Communications for Atlas Group. We'll address the baseless allegations circulating online."

Baseless.

That was the party line we had hammered out upstairs, already plotting digital countermeasures. Harvey's evidence was damning, consisting of leaked emails from old employees and anonymous sources, photos of shipments that looked innocuous but screamed cartel to anyone who knew. But I could twist it, hack the narrative. I'd done it before.

A reporter shoved forward, a wiry guy with a press badge from some tabloid rag. "Ms. Movitch, the report details specific ties to underground operations. Care to comment on the cartel connections?"

Audrey didn't flinch. "The article in question is a fabrication built on hearsay and manipulated data. Atlas Group is a legitimate investment firm with a proven track record in luxury brands and high-stakes ventures. We've already initiated legal action against the publisher for defamation." Her voice carried that perfect blend of authority and warmth, defusing the tension like a pro. I stood behind her, arms crossed, my presence a silent warning for them not to push too hard, and things get ugly.

Inside, my mind was racing. Harvey. The exposé painted targets on all our backs. If someone grabbed her to silence the source... My fists tightened at my sides.

Another question lobbed our way, this from a sharp-eyed woman with a network logo. "What about the named individuals? Zane Calloway and Damien Pierce as alleged cartel leaders. Any response?"

I stepped forward then, as planned. "I'm Noah Calloway," I said. "Those 'allegations' are fiction. We've cooperated with the authorities in the past and will again if needed. This is a smear campaign, nothing more."

We had cooperated, usually by buying silence or hacking records. But the press ate it up, scribbling notes, cameras whirring.

The barrage continued for what felt like hours, questions piling on and Audrey fielded most. Her responses were polished, deflecting with facts about our "community initiatives" and "economic contributions."

I chimed in when muscle was needed by staring down aggressive types. All the while, my phone buzzed in my pocket on updates from Rico on security sweeps, Zane demanding status. But there was no word on Harvey. Her apartment was empty, the line was dead. Was she at a safe house? Or worse?

Finally, the frenzy ebbed as Audrey wrapped it up with her closing word "We'll provide a full statement soon. Thank you." We retreated through a side door, security holding the line as flashes chased us. The hallway echoed with our footsteps, the chaos muffled behind us.

In her office, Audrey collapsed into her chair, exhaling sharply. "That was brutal."

I shut the door, leaning against it, arms crossed. "You handled it like a pro. Kept them off balance."

She rubbed her temples, her composed facade cracking. "Thanks. But Noah... I'm sorry. This is partly my fault."

I raised an eyebrow, pushing off the door to perch on the edge of her desk. "How do you figure?"

"Harvey, we met at that gala. I thought she was genuine, a fellow journalist type. We hit it off over drinks, talked shop. I didn't realize she was pumping me for info on Atlas." Her voice wavered, eyes meeting mine with genuine regret. "She seemed like a friend. Betrayed doesn't cover it."

Betrayed.

The word twisted in my chest, I knew that sting intimately. "Don't beat yourself up," I said, keeping my tone even. "She fooled me too." The admission hung there, heavy, but I clamped down on the details. No need to confess the intimacy, the way I'd let her in deeper than anyone. I had slept with her, trusted her, loved her? Close enough to burn now.

Audrey's eyes widened slightly. "You? How?"

I shrugged, forcing nonchalance. "Ran into her a few times. Thought she was just... interested. Turns out it was all agenda."

She nodded, leaning back. "Well, misery loves company. Let's shut this down."

We dove into work mode, her on the phones coordinating retractions, me at her computer terminal, fingers flying across the keys. Hacking was my domain since Atlas's digital fortress was built on my code. I infiltrated the publisher's servers first, making subtle alterations, timestamps and metadata, making sources appear fabricated. Then the evidence files Harvey had uploaded of photos, just enough to scream Photoshop, documents altered with inconsistencies. Deepfakes of "anonymous" audio clips, voices mismatched.

As I worked, my mind wandered back to her. Where was she? The security feed from her block showed her slipping out the back alley, hood up, bag slung over her shoulder. Was she running scared? Was her line off deliberately to ghost me?

Pain lanced through me, sharper than expected. I had sent that watcher for her protection, not surveillance. The threats were real after Eden's fire, and Vanessa's hit, If she was out there alone...

"Noah?" Audrey's voice pulled me back. She was on call, mouthing " Progress?"

I nodded, hitting enter on a script that seeded doubt across forums, bots posting "hoax" analyses, influencers we had bought retweeting skepticism.

By midday, national networks pulled the story for "verification," others issued a correction.

"We'd hit that by the end of the day, easy." I smiled.

We took a break for lunch around three, since the initial panic was subsiding. Audrey ordered some iced coffee and sipped hers black, staring out the window. "Think it'll stick? The doubt?"

"Long enough," I said, leaving my own cup untouched. "We'll bury it in countersuits, NDAs. But Harvey... she's out there with the original files."

Audrey set her cup down. "We'll find her. Zane's got people."

We pushed on, Audrey charming editors into spikes, me orchestrating digital sabotage. By five, that day, CNN dropped it from rotation, Fox called it "unsubstantiated." Half the outlets went silent on the exposé.

Zane texted me and I read it for Audrey 'Good work team. Keep vigilant."

As the workday wound down, Audrey stretched, smiling faintly. "We make a hell of a team."

"Yeah," I agreed, but my mind was elsewhere. Harvey.

That's when the intercom buzzed. "Press ambush in the garage. They slipped past the gate."

Shit!

We grabbed our things and headed down. The garage was dim, concrete echoing our steps. And there they were, a cluster of reporters, maybe ten, cameras ready, mics out. The wiry tabloid guy from earlier led the pack, smirking.

"Mr. Bennette! Ms. Movitch! A few more questions?"

Audrey tensed beside me, but stepped forward. "This is private property. Leave now, or..."

He cut her off. "The public deserves answers! Is Atlas really clean, or are you covering up murders? The fire at Eden, was it arson tied to your 'brothers'?"

I felt heat rise, stepping in front of Audrey. "You heard her. Get out."

Another reporter, the sharp-eyed woman, rushed, "Harvey's resources are solid! Emails, photos, how do you explain them?"

"Manipulated," I growled, "Your 'sources' are lies. Push this, and you'll regret it."

The wiry guy laughed. "Threats? That's cartel talk! Admit it, Atlas is dirty!"

Audrey's turn, her voice slicing sharp. "No threats. Facts. We've provided evidence of fabrication. Air it, and face lawsuits that'll bankrupt you."

The woman sneered. "Hiding behind lawyers?" What about the bodies that dropped dead after crossing you?"

My control snapped. "Rival death? Not on us. But keep digging graves, you might find yours."

Gasps rippled. Audrey shot me a look, that was too far, but the wiry guy pressed: "Recorded! That's admission!"

"No," Audrey fired back, fiercely. "All speculation. Leave, or security drags you."

Security arrived then, herding them out amid shouts of "Censorship!" "Truth will out!"

As they vanished, Audrey turned to me, eyes blazing. "What the hell, Noah? 'Find yours?' That's fuel!"

"They needed scaring," I muttered,

"Excuse me," I said, walking away to my car, knowing she was staring at me with unbelieving eyes.

I wasn't bothered about a random news crew quoting me. I needed to find Harvey. I must find her, I had to.