Elara cleared her office in under thirty minutes.
Not because she had little to take—but because she refused to linger.
The space had already begun to feel foreign. Assistants moved carefully around her, voices soft, hands hovering as if any sudden motion might shatter something fragile. A few offered apologies disguised as pleasantries. Others avoided her entirely.
Smiles everywhere.
Sharp ones.
She packed only what mattered: her father's fountain pen, a leather-bound notebook worn thin at the edges, a framed photograph taken years ago on a windswept cliff—her and her father, both squinting into the sun, both laughing.
When she lifted the frame, her assistant Mara stood frozen near the door.
"I didn't know," Mara said quickly. Too quickly. "They didn't tell us anything until—"
Elara closed the box. "You don't owe me an explanation."
Mara swallowed. "If there's anything I can do—"
"There is," Elara said gently. "Stay observant. And be careful who you trust."
Mara's eyes widened, then filled with understanding she hadn't expected to receive.
Elara carried the box herself.
No escort.
No ceremony.
As she stepped into the elevator, her phone vibrated.
ACCESS REVOKED: Executive Credentials
So it begins, she thought.
By the time she reached the lobby, whispers had turned into a low hum. Security guards nodded stiffly. The receptionist—new, young—offered a sympathetic look that bordered on pity.
Elara walked past without slowing.
Outside, the city roared as if nothing monumental had just happened inside the tower. Cars honked. People hurried. Empires fell quietly, she realized. Loudness was for revolutions, not removals.
Her driver was waiting.
Or rather—had been.
The car door stood open, but the driver was speaking into his phone, posture tense. When he noticed her, his face drained of color.
"Ms. Ravenscroft," he said, ending the call abruptly. "I'm… I've been reassigned."
Elara nodded. "Of course you have."
A black sedan pulled away from the curb across the street.
Inside it, she caught a glimpse of Seraphina's profile—perfectly composed, already looking forward.
Elara turned away.
She hailed a cab.
The driver didn't recognize her. That, strangely, was a relief.
As the city blurred past the window, messages began to arrive.
Former allies checking in with cautious language. Condolences disguised as concern. Silence from those she had expected to hear from immediately.
And then—one message that made her fingers still.
Unknown Number:
I warned your father this would happen.
Elara stared at the screen.
Another message followed.
If you want the truth, meet me. Tonight. Harbor District. Pier 9.
Her first instinct was suspicion.
Her second was resolve.
Truth, she had learned, rarely arrived safely.
The cab stopped outside her apartment building—one she had owned outright, thank God. Her access hadn't been cut yet.
Inside, the familiar quiet wrapped around her, but it no longer felt like refuge.
She set the box down on the table and leaned against the counter, finally allowing herself a breath that shook.
Betrayal didn't hurt the way she had imagined.
It didn't scream.
It whispered.
And somewhere between the whispers and the smiles, Elara Ravenscroft began to understand something essential.
This wasn't a coup.
It was a cleansing.
And cleansings required her absence.
She picked up her phone again, re-reading the message.
Pier 9.
Tonight.
Elara straightened, eyes hardening with purpose.
If they wanted her erased, they should have ensured she didn't know how to survive without them.