Quantum Future Campus, Women's Residence:
Liora lay on her back, her damp light brown hair spread across the pillow like ink bleeding into cotton.The scent of lavender shampoo still clung to her skin, steam from the showercurlingagainst the frosted window. Outside, dusk spilled its dying colors across the skyline, but her eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, phone pressed to her ear.
"Mama, I'm sorry," her voice barely above a whisper, fragile and aching. "Did I make you worry?"
On the other end, Amara exhaled like someone surfacing from deep water.Her voice,when it came, trembled—raw from hours of silence, from the sting of sleepless pacing echoing off sterile hotel walls.Keeping those fifty women safe had gutted her more than any bullet ever could.
Dane had carved out his revenge. Marco—the man who filmed Dane's daughter, blackmailed her, and in the end, he killed Dane's wife and child. The murder was gone.
Destroying Tony Gambino's criminal empire had felt like pressing ice to burn skin. Relief, not peace. Soon, she would crush the rest of the Gambinos. Then, she'd finally answer her husband's death with justice sharp enough to bleed the world.
But now—Now she heard Liora's voice, she felt at ease.
"Yes, sweetheart. I was ready to board the next flight to the U.S.," she paused. I thought something had happened."
Liora closed her eyes. "I saw your missed calls this morning. I'm sorry. I'll be more mindful next time."
The only reason Liora was hiding her dreadful experience from her mother was that she did not want to make her mother sad or worry her. Probably one day, she would tell her everything. The guilt bit at her, but hearing her mother's voice eased something jagged in her chest.
"Ora?"
"Yes, Mama?"
Amara didn't speak right away. She held her breath for a moment too long — the kind of pause that made silence feel like something alive between them.
"I didn't want to bring this up now," she said finally, voice low, careful. "But I can't keep putting it off."
Liora tensed. Her fingers curled slightly around the phone.
"I don't mind you enjoying your life. Truly. You deserve happiness." Amara hesitated again, just for a beat. "But I know you and Daran are together....And I know it's normal, when people care about each other, for things to become… physical."
Liora sat up straight, the shift sudden. Her pulse kicked hard beneath her ribs. A quiet rustle of sheets followed like the room itself had flinched.
"Mama! What—why are you even saying that?"
Her cheeks burned. Why she had to lie to her mother. She regretted it. Daran… God, Daran.
"I just want you to be careful," Amara continued gently. "Not because I don't trust you. But because I want you to finish your studies. I want you to have choices. Just… don't get pregnant before you are ready. Please."
There was silence. Liora stared at the floor. Her voice, when it came, was low and uncertain.
"Nothing happened, Mama. You don't need to worry about that."
"I'm only saying this because I care. You and Daran are still young. And when you're both settled—when the time is right—I would be so happy to have grandchildren."
Liora groaned and flopped back against the bed, covering her face with her arm.
"Mama, if you keep talking like this, I swear I'll hang up. I'm not doing anything like that. Not with Daran. Not until I'm married. Okay?"
Amara chuckled softly, but her voice held no judgment. Only love.
"You don't have to be so shy, Ora. I'm your mother. If you ever have doubts or questions, you can always come to me. Always!"
Liora didn't answer right away. A lump had lodged itself in her throat. What will occur when her deceit is uncovered? Will that lead to her mother's heartbreaking? Liora pondered. "I know, Mama," she said quietly. "Thank you."
Before the conversation could go further, a knock echoed through Liora's room, soft but sudden, breaking the thread of their conversation.
Her gaze flicked to the door immediately. Brows drawn slightly together, she sat still for a moment, unsure who would come to her on a Saturday afternoon.
Then came the sweet, familiar, laced with warmth voice.
"Li, it's me. Sia. Open the door."
Liora stood up at once, brushing down her T-shirt.
"Mama, my friend Sia's here. I'll talk to you later, okay? Love you."
She ended the call, set the phone aside on the nightstand, and crossed the room.
"Sia!" Liora opened the door with a quick smile.
"What happened to your head?" Sia's hand went to Liora's temple. "How did you hit your head? Does it hurt?"
Liora blinked, only now remembering the graze near her forehead. Her fingers brushed it lightly. "Oh… I fell. Nothing serious."
Sia stepped in without waiting to be invited and dropped into the chair beside the desk like she belonged there.
"When did it happen?" she asked, eyes narrowing. Then her expression shifted—softened. "And more importantly… how are you glowing like this? It's not like you didn't glow before, but today—it's different. You are shining like the sun, Li. What changed? Did… did Caspian recognize you?"
The name struck like cold water. Liora looked away. Her lips pressed together before she said quietly, "No, he did not." She paused, tucking her hair behind her ear. Caspian has not contacted her yet, though she has sent him many voice messages. "About glowing, maybe I just… finally got some good sleep."
Her mind flickered, uninvited, to Nova. The way he leaned in when he spoke, that lazy grin, the careless charm that made her heart forget its bruises. She shook her head quickly.
"What's important is—why are you here?" Liora sat on the bed, tossing Sia a teasing glance. "I thought you would be busy drowning in dresses. Trying on every shade of red and silver to catch Kai's attention."
Sia rolled her eyes, grinning like someone caught red-handed. "Exactly why I'm here. I need your help."
She leaned back with a dramatic sigh, arms hanging off the chair like she was melting. "My Aka's style is a disaster. Everything she picked looks like it crawled out of a vintage soap opera. Nothing fits my vibe." Sia sighed.
Liora laughed, and Sia followed, their laughter threading through the room like something familiar and soft.
Meanwhile, in Avalon—
After ending the call with Liora, Amara sat still for a moment. Her phone rested on the table.
Across from her, Dane and Miracle sat silently, having heard every word of the mother-daughter conversation.
Amara's eyes moved to Dane. "How do you feel?"
Dane leaned back, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
"I feel… okay," he said. Then, quieter: "I'll feel right when Tony Gambino and every rotten root of his family is gone. That day—that will be the day we breathe again."
Miracle didn't respond. She turned her attention back to her screen, fingers moving across the keyboard.
"Tony didn't hold a funeral for Marco," she said without looking up. "Not even a fake one. He wants to show the world he had nothing to do with Marco or Daniella's side business."
Dane and Amara exchanged a glance before standing behind her. Miracle tapped another key, the screen shifting.
Her tone sharpened, but her smile held.
"Word just came in—Tony's bringing in the Ruthless Team. He has hired them to find us. And the fifty women who were supposed to be captured are gone."
Dane's jaw tensed. "Let your ex-team come. We'll handle them too."
Miracle's lips curled into a thin, sharp smile. "They almost killed me once.... They won't get a second chance."
Dane placed a steady hand on her shoulder. "You deserve your revenge."
She didn't look up. Her eyes stayed on the screen, but her voice cut clean.
"Yes. I will."
While the others were busy planning their next moves, Donovan took the road.
He had shed his formal suit back at the safe house, trading it for the comfort of worn black jeans, a leather jacket moulded to his frame, and gloves he trusted more than most people. He yearned for the liberation only his Ducati could provide. The familiar scent of aged leather grounded him. The cityscape blurred as he accelerated.
Midway through his journey, the distant hum of another engine reached his ears. Another bike appeared beside him—a Kawasaki Ninja H2. Black, clean, and matching his pace like a reflection born from the road itself. No words were exchanged; the shared language of speed and freedom spoke volumes, the speed surged.
Red lights blurred past. Empty intersections waited untouched. It was as if the city understood: this road didn't belong to anyone else but to them.