Glass shattered.
We both spun toward the living room window.
A brick rolled across the floor.
Taped to it—
An envelope.
Adrenaline slammed through me.
Liam moved first.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me behind the kitchen island.
“Stay down.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Stay down,” he repeated, voice hard.
He approached the window carefully, scanning the street below.
I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears.
He picked up the envelope, bringing it back toward me.
“Don’t touch it,” he said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
He opened it carefully.
Inside—
A single photograph.
My father.
Leaving the detention center.
Timestamped this morning.
Beneath it, handwritten:
You think you control the board. Try controlling blood.
My stomach dropped.
“He wouldn’t,” I whispered.
Liam’s expression was ice.
“He might.”
“They wouldn’t go after him.”
“They’ll go after whatever hurts.”
My hands trembled despite my effort to steady them.
“This is escalation,” I said.
“Yes.”
“We can’t ignore this.”
“We won’t.”
He pulled out his phone again.
“This time,” I didn’t stop him.
As he made calls—security, private investigators, contacts I didn’t recognize—I stared at the photograph.
My father had made mistakes.
Monumental ones.
But he was still—
Mine.
“You’re shaking,” Liam said quietly once he finished.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He stepped closer.
Carefully.
As if approaching a wounded animal.
“They’re trying to destabilize you,” he said. “That means you matter.”
“I already knew that.”
“This is meant to make you reactive.”
“I won’t be.”
His eyes searched mine.
“Then what will you be?”
Strategic.
Cold.
Ruthless if necessary.
“I’ll be smarter,” I said.
A slow nod.
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
Sirens wailed faintly in the distance—security responding.
The apartment felt different now.
Violated.
“You can stay at my place,” he said.
“No.”
“It’s more secure.”
“I won’t let them push me out of my own home.”
“This isn’t pride. It’s safety.”
“And I won’t live behind reinforced glass just because Ethan is spiraling.”
He exhaled sharply.
“You’re infuriating.”
“I’ve been told.”
He studied me for a long moment.
Then—
“What’s your move?” he asked.
It wasn’t dismissive.
It wasn’t controlling.
It was collaborative.
Finally.
“They’re escalating emotionally,” I said. “Which means the financial pressure is working.”
“Yes.”
“So we increase it.”
His eyes sharpened.
“How?”
“We leak nothing,” I said. “We stay clean. But we push regulators harder. Quietly.”
“Force him to divert resources.”
“Exactly.”
“And your father?”
I hesitated.
“That’s the personal piece,” I said softly.
“Which makes it dangerous.”
“Yes.”
I picked up the photo again.
“He’s being used.”
“Then we cut the leverage.”
“How?”
“We move him.”
I looked up sharply.
“Legally,” Liam clarified. “Protective custody. Cooperative angle.”
“He won’t agree.”
“Then convince him.”
The idea twisted in my chest.
Visiting my father again.
Asking him to cooperate.
After everything.
“Can you do that?” Liam asked.
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
Because if this war had taught me anything—
It was that sentiment couldn’t outrun survival.
A knock sounded at the door.
Security.
The broken glass was photographed. The brick collected.
Statements taken.
I watched it all with clinical detachment.
But when the apartment finally emptied again—
The silence pressed in.
Liam stood near the window, looking out at the street.
“They’re watching,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“And you’re not afraid?”
I considered the question.
“I am,” I admitted.
He turned.
“Of what?”
“Of losing control.”
His gaze softened.
“You won’t.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he said. “But I can promise you won’t face it alone.”
There it was again.
Not ownership.
Not dominance.
Partnership.
Slowly, I walked toward him.
“I don’t want you to fight for me,” I said.
“I want you to fight with me.”
He held my gaze.
“That’s all I’ve been trying to do.”
A fragile understanding settled between us.
Outside, somewhere in the city, Ethan was scrambling.
Cornered animals were the most dangerous.
And tonight—
He’d proven he was cornered.
“This isn’t the end,” Liam said.
“No,” I agreed. “It’s the fracture point.”
His hand brushed mine.
Not claiming.
Not controlling.
Just there.
And as I looked at the shattered glass on my floor, the brick, the photograph—
I realized something unsettling.
The corporate war was no longer the most dangerous part.
The real battle was psychological.
And if Ethan thought fear would make me retreat—
He’d just miscalculated.
Because fear didn’t weaken me.
It clarified me.
And now—
I was done reacting.
It was time to strike first.