The digital clock mounted above Judge Harrison’s mahogany bench seemed to mock me, its glowing red numbers bleeding away the seconds. / Chapter 6 / 20

Chapter 6 - THE OFFICE REMNANTSThree hours later, the federal seizure order was executed at the sprawling corporate headquarters of Titan Tactical Systems.

Black-suited auditors and armed federal marshals filed through the glass double doors, replacing the corporate receptionists with grim efficiency. The golden lettering of the company logo on the marble lobby wall gleamed under the bright chandeliers, but the atmosphere inside felt like a tomb.

I walked through the executive suite on the top floor, my boots echoing against the polished hardwood. Everything was exactly as my father had left it—except for the desk.

Drawers had been pulled out and ransacked. Papers were scattered across the floor. Curtis had been busy trying to shred incriminating documents before the marshals arrived, but he hadn't been fast enough. A pile of partially shredded tax forms sat in the metal wastebasket near the window.

Colonel Carney walked in behind me, holding a secure encrypted tablet.

“The forensic accountants are already mirroring the main server,” Carney said, his tone professional and steady. “The offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands have been frozen. Your brother’s personal laptop contained direct email threads with a procurement broker tied to foreign intelligence brokers in Eastern Europe. They were trying to sell our next-gen thermal imaging patents.”

I stopped by the large floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city skyline, watching the rain begin to streak against the glass.

“He was always ambitious,” I murmured. “Just never smart enough to realize that selling secrets to people who want to kill American soldiers usually ends with a pair of handcuffs.”

“Your father knew,” Carney noted softly, stepping up beside me. “That’s why he left the company to you, Avalon. He knew you were the only one with the backbone to hold the line when the pressure got heavy.”

A soft knock echoed at the doorway. Marcus Vance, my attorney, stepped inside, looking slightly dazed as he clutched a thick manila folder.

“Well,” Marcus said, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I’ve practiced law for twenty-five years, and that is easily the most insane morning of my career. The prosecutor has formally recused himself, and the district attorney's office just handed over all criminal charges against you with a formal written apology.”

“An apology won't fix the public record,” I said without turning around.

“True,” Marcus admitted, stepping closer and placing the folder on the desk. “But the press conference downstairs is already underway. The Department of Defense released a sanitized version of your service record and your Silver Star citation. By tonight, every major news outlet in the country will be running stories about your mother and brother's corporate conspiracy.”

As if on cue, the wall-mounted television in the corner of the office flickered to life. A news anchor’s face appeared on screen, beneath a bold, flashing banner:

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His chest tightened, a sharp, cold panic piercing through the expensive...

$The silence of the boutique hotel room was a heavy, suffocating blanket. Two weeks had passed since Lena Moretti—formerly Lena Vance—walked out of Dante’s life, leaving behind an empire of glass, steel, and golden handcuffs. Now, sitting at a small laminate table with the ultrasound printouts clutched in her trembling hands, her life had completely fractured.$