The silence in the Devereux car was velvet-thick. Ariella sat stiffly beside the security officer who had driven her back from the tower, her hands curled in her lap, voice stuck somewhere between her throat and heart.
She hadn't told Naomi where she'd been. Not because she didn't want to—but because she wasn't sure what she'd say. She didn't know what Devereux wanted. Only that his eyes had studied her like a blueprint. Like he was mapping out how to own her.
Across Los Angelus, another set of eyes had taken notice.
---
Sophia Devereux read the email on her tablet twice. A video file had been attached—Ariella Gray's showcase performance.
She watched it. Every second.
When it ended, Sophia didn't move. Didn't blink. Her mind raced—not with admiration, but with calculation.
"This is how the game starts," she whispered.
Then she made the call.
---
Grayson's knuckles were raw from the punching bag in his basement gym. Sweat trickled down his spine, but it couldn't cool the fire in his veins. Every part of him screamed that something was wrong.
He didn't trust Devereux. Never had. And now, Ariella was on his radar.
He pulled out his phone and hit record. "Memo: Check Naomi Gray's financial records. Look for offshore deposits, real estate transactions under aliases. She wouldn't take silence money without hiding it."
He sent the voice memo to Charles.
Then, he grabbed his keys.
Time for a house call.
---
Naomi heard the knock and didn't answer right away. When she opened the door, Grayson stood there, out of breath but eyes clear.
"I know," he said before she could speak. "I know what Richard did. I know Ariella's not just some girl he discovered. And if you don't tell me the full truth now, someone else will."
Naomi's spine straightened. "You don't know anything."
"I know enough to see what's coming. And I know Ariella won't survive it if you keep protecting her like she's still five years old."
Naomi's eyes flared—but then, they softened.
"You love her," she said.
"I'd burn for her."
"Then start digging. Because the Devereuxs are already ten steps ahead."
---
In a dimly lit lounge, Richard Devereux lit a cigarette with a gold lighter monogrammed with her initials. Across from her sat a woman in her early 40s, sharp eyes and sharper smile: Valerie Quinn, ex-journalist, now fixer.
"I need you to leak something," Sophia said.
Valerie raised a brow. "Scandal?"
"Not yet. Legacy." She slid a file across the table. "Ariella Gray. Richard Devereux's daughter. Confirm it. Then burn the edges. Make it look like someone tried to hide it, not spread it."
Valerie's smile curved like a dagger. "You want a wildfire."
"No," Sophia said, blowing smoke. "I want a revolution."
---
Ariella sat on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her phone buzzed. A private number.
She answered.
A woman's voice: "Your mother lied to protect you. But she can't save you from the storm that's coming. You need to choose which name you'll die with: Gray... or Devereux."
Click.
She stared at the screen, heartbeat ricocheting in her chest.
Someone knew. Someone had always known.
And now the world would too.