The private wing of Manhattan General was a fortress of soft beige and harsh reality. The steady beep of the fetal monitor, now silent, had been replaced by the softer sounds of two newborns sleeping in a clear bassinet beside Elara's bed. Outside the door, two uniformed court officers stood guard. Inside, the air crackled with strategy and trauma.
Cassian entered like a storm making landfall. He went to Elara first, his hand cradling her cheek, his eyes drinking in the sight of the twins—Leo and Luna—their existence still a miraculous shock. "I left you," he breathed, the guilt raw in his voice.
"You drew his fire," she said, squeezing his hand. "Now we will end this."
Serena and Robert arrived next, not with the air of helpless grandparents, but as intelligence officers delivering a briefing. Robert carried a leather folio, his hands steady.
"Judge Henderson," he announced without preamble, laying a sheet of paper on the rolling table. "His wife's cancer treatments at Swiss Medica—four hundred thousand dollars last year alone. Paid by the 'New Dawn Charitable Trust,' which is a subsidiary of 'Vega Holdings,' which received a wire transfer from a defunct shell company once linked to Marcus Perez's weapon purchases. It's a breadcrumb trail, but it leads back to J. Henderson is bought and paid for."
"We can expose him, but it takes time we don't have," Serena said, her voice cool. "The hearing is tomorrow at nine AM. We need something faster. Something that burns the narrative they're building before the judge can even pick up his gavel."
In the corner, Hannah monitored the twins' vitals on a mobile screen. Elara watched her, the woman's calm a stark contrast to the churning fear in the room.
"Hannah?" Elara's voice was quiet.
"Yes?" Hannah replied, her eyes still on the screen.
"You've been here through everything. What about your children?"
Hannah's head lifted. In the midst of a fight for Elara's own motherhood, the question seemed to disarm her completely. Her professional mask softened into something... vulnerable and deeply moved.
"When Daniel first explained the… volatility of your situation," Hannah said carefully, "Michael and I made a decision. Our children, are on a three-week 'surprise' vacation to the Philippines with their favorite aunts, Clara and Amelia. They're swimming, eating too much sugar, and are completely unaware that their loving 'tour guides' are a six-person detail of former Special Forces operatives." A faint, proud smile touched her lips. "They are safe, Elara. So I can be fully here, to help you keep yourchildren safe."
The profound, pre-emptive loyalty of it hushed the room. It was the bedrock of the found family they had all become.
"That," Elara said, turning her gaze to Cassian, "is how we fight. We show who we are. We show the family they're trying to break." She looked at Serena. "You gave one interview to tell your truth. Now we give another. Together. Live."
Serena nodded, a fierce light in her eyes. "Isabelle didn't just steal my face. She tortured my child with neglect. The world needs to hear it."
"Go live with what?" Thomas's voice was a ragged scrape. He stood by the window, his usual sharpness blunted by a frantic, helpless energy. "Sophie's still out there. In some hole, because of us. We're planning PR while she's—" He couldn't finish.
"We fight on all fronts, Thomas," Cassian said, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Robert, you and Prescott work the Riggs angle. Turn the logistics man. Follow the money to its source and get me something I can use to blackmail Henderson into recusing himself by morning."
"On it," Robert said, pulling out a burner phone.
"Thomas," Cassian continued, "you pinpoint Sophie's exact location. Find the building's blueprints, security feeds, everything. Have a team ready to move the second we have the right cover."
"And the right cover is?" Thomas demanded.
"Is us," Elara said. She looked at Serena. "We go on camera. Now."
---
30 MINUTES LATER - LIVE INTERVIEW
A discreet, high-definition camera was set up in the hospital room. Elara was propped up in bed, her hair brushed, wearing a simple soft blue robe. She looked pale but profoundly calm. Serena sat in a chair beside her, posture regal. In the bassinet at Elara's side, the twins were just visible, sleeping. The interviewer, a renowned journalist named Vivian Thorne (no relation), known for her integrity, sat opposite them, her expression grave.
"We're live in five… four…"
The red light on the camera glowed.
"Vivian Thorne here, coming to you tonight with an unprecedented interview. With me are Elara Vance-Thorne and her mother, Serena Vance. They are speaking from a secure location just hours after a violent attack on their home and the birth of Elara's twins. The reason for this immediacy is a developing legal situation in which the newborn children are being sought for protective custody by the city. Elara, Serena… thank you for speaking with us in such a traumatic time."
"Thank you for having us, Vivian," Elara said, her voice clear but carrying the weight of her exhaustion. "We're here because a story is being told about us that isn't true. We want to tell the real one."
"Start from the beginning," Vivian urged gently.
Serena leaned forward. "The beginning is that for twenty-four years, a woman named Isabelle Peralta lived as me. She underwent plastic surgery to steal my face, my name, and my daughter." The statement, delivered with quiet certainty, was explosive.
As Serena detailed the swap, the abandonment, Elara listened, her hand resting on the bassinet. When Vivian turned to her, the question was inevitable.
"Elara, you were raised by the woman you believed was Serena Vance. What was that childhood like?"
Elara's gaze grew distant. "It was a childhood of being an accessory. Of learning that my needs were inconvenient. I didn't know I had a severe shellfish allergy until I was ten, when I had a reaction at a friend's party. When I told… Isabelle… she was annoyed. She said I was being dramatic." Elara's voice dropped, but the microphone caught every word. "A week later, Lena—my half-sister—was sad about eating shrimp cocktail alone. Isabelle made me eat an entire bowl of shrimp bisque. I pleaded with her. I said my throat tickled. She told me not to spoil Lena's dinner."
In the control room, Thomas watched, his heart hammering. Cassian stood rigid.
"What happened?" Vivian asked, her professional composure wavering.
"My throat closed. I couldn't breathe. I was rushed to the ICU. I was there for a week. Isabelle visited once." Elara looked directly into the lens, her eyes glistening. "She told the doctors I was a 'fragile, attention-seeking child.' That's the woman who has now petitioned the court, claiming she should have protective custody of my babies because my home is unsafe."
The shock in the studio was palpable. Vivian took a moment. "The attack today… the violence. That seems to support the argument of an unsafe environment."
Now, Cassian, who had been standing just off-camera, stepped into the frame. He stood behind Elara, a hand on her shoulder. "The violence came to us, Vivian. It was sent by the same source that corrupted the judge who signed this custody order and that manipulates Isabelle Peralta. A man who calls himself 'J.' He is the real danger. Not this family."
On a monitor, they played selected, non-graphic footage: the shattered nursery door from the security feed, the scorch marks from the breaching charges. A final, poignant shot of Hestia's covered body being respectfully wheeled out.
"This," Cassian said, his voice like iron, "is what was brought to our door. This is the 'unsafe environment'—orchestrated by the very person who now hides behind legal paperwork to finish the job. We are not a family in chaos. We are a family under siege by a ghost from the past who uses lawyers and lies as his weapons."
The interview was a masterstroke. Raw, emotional, and strategically damning.
As Vivian signed off, the room exploded into quiet, urgent activity. Serena's phone buzzed instantly—the publicist. "It's trending everywhere. The allergy story is a lightning rod. Isabelle is being eviscerated online."
But Thomas wasn't watching the social media feeds. He was staring at his laptop, where a second, silent drama played out. He had accessed the traffic camera grid near Robert's old development. There, he saw it: a black sedan arriving, and a figure being hurried inside hours ago. He cross-referenced the heat signature data Robert had acquired. Two life signs. One pacing (Isabelle). One stationary (Sophie).
"I have her," Thomas whispered. "I have the building. I have the floor plan. The team is on standby."
Cassian looked from Thomas's desperate face to Elara, who gave a tiny, resolute nod.
"Now," Cassian said. "We use the storm. While everyone is watching that interview, while Isabelle is reeling. Go get her. But Thomas—" He grabbed his cousin's arm. "Quiet. Precise. No noise. We are not giving them a single bullet to use against us tomorrow."
Thomas was already moving, tapping his earpiece. "All units, this is Thorne. Move to extraction point Beta. Noise discipline is absolute. I am en route to command."
As Thomas fled the room, Cassian's own secure phone buzzed. It was Robert.
"Cassian. We found Carl Riggs. He's singing like a canary for witness protection. He gave us the digital key. We traced the final payment to Agent Croft's mortgage company. It went through thirty minutes after she received the court order. It's proof of a bribe to a state official. We can sink her by dawn."
"Do it," Cassian ordered.
The twin strategies were in motion. The public war was raging on the airwaves, shredding Isabelle's credibility. The shadow war was closing in, with a bribe about to be exposed and a rescue underway.
But in the silent condo, Sophie, listening to Isabelle scream at her phone as the interview demolished her, saw her chance. She began to subtly rock back and forth, making her bound wrists rub against the rough carpet. She shifted until the metal zipper pull was against the radiator pipe. Slowly, rhythmically, she began to drag it back and forth.
Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch.
It was a tiny, grating sound. In the modern quiet of the condo, it was an irritant.
"Stop that fidgeting!" Isabelle snapped.
"Sorry," Sophie mumbled, but didn't stop. Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch.
She saw the guard by the door, a bored-looking man with an earpiece, frown. He tapped his earpiece, static crackling in response. The old pipe was interfering with his cheap radio frequency.
"Ugh! What's wrong with your comms?" Isabelle asked, annoyed.
"Getting interference," the guard muttered, tapping it again. He walked a few steps away, trying to clear the signal.
The guard was distracted. Sophie, her wrists raw, quietly curled her bound hands and used her teeth to activate the SOS function on her hidden smartwatch.
A single, silent, geo-tagged pulse fired into the ether.
At that exact moment, Thomas's phone vibrated in the back of the speeding SUV. The map on his screen lit up with a pulsating dot. Right on top of the location he'd already pinpointed.
A confirmation. A plea.
He looked at the live news feed on the van's monitor, where a clip of Elara, brave and heartbroken, was playing again. The narrative they had to protect.
He looked at the pulsing dot. The friend he had to save.
The turbulence wasn't in the room anymore. It was in his own heart, tearing in two directions as his vehicle sped into the night, toward a rescue that had to be utterly perfect, or it would doom them all.