Aria didn’t bother with a car.

She ran.

From her office to the curb. Into the nearest cab. Gave the driver an address she hadn’t said out loud in four years:

Lila’s apartment.

Her phone buzzed nonstop—calls from Dominic, messages from her board, press alerts pinging every second. But she ignored them all.

This wasn’t about saving a brand anymore.

This was about saving blood.

She arrived out of breath, heart beating like it was trying to outrun her mistakes.

Lila opened the door, arms crossed. “You look like hell.”

“You’re about to walk into it,” Aria snapped, brushing past her. “We need to talk. Now.”

“Already said what I needed to.”

Aria turned. “No. You said what he wanted you to feel. This job Hale offered? It’s not an opportunity—it’s a loaded gun. And you’re the bullet.”

Lila’s expression twisted. “Maybe I’m tired of watching you win. Ever think of that?”

“This isn’t winning, Lila. It’s barely surviving.”

A beat. Then:

“I know what Hale’s really after,” Aria said.

That got her sister’s attention.

“He’s not just trying to take me down. He’s trying to drag out everything I’ve buried. Including what happened in Chicago.”

Lila flinched. “You don’t talk about that.”

“I’m talking now. Because he’s closing in. And if he finds it—if he connects the money, the accident, the cover-up—it’s not just me he’ll ruin. It’s you too.”

Lila stared, pale. “You think he knows?”

“He suspects. And you? You’re the softest entry point.”

Silence filled the room.

Then Lila sat down.

“You covered it all up. I thought it was gone.”

“I thought so too.”

“But it’s not,” Lila whispered.

“No.” Aria’s voice dropped. “It never was.”

The door buzzed.

They both froze.

Aria walked slowly to the intercom.

“Delivery for Ms. Lila Vale.”

Lila frowned. “I didn’t order anything.”

Aria’s stomach turned.

She pushed the button. “Who’s it from?”

The voice on the other end answered:

“Marcus Hale sends his regards.”