The first bomb shook the east wing.
Glass shattered. Alarms screamed. And Nathaniel pulled Alfreda behind him as marble rained down from the chandelier overhead. Lachlan was already barking orders into his comms, voice as lethal as the weapons in his safe.
"She didn't wait," Alfreda muttered. "Celia brought the whole damn war to our doorstep."
"No," Nathaniel growled, gun cocked. "She brought it to me."
Then the door blew open.
Three men in Widowmaker black surged through. Nathaniel dropped two before the third got close. Alfreda spun, twisted, disarmed him, and shot him point-blank with his own pistol.
Blood splattered across her cheek. She didn't flinch.
"You still mad at me?" she asked him.
Nathaniel looked at the carnage, then her.
"You just turned on the woman who raised you to fight beside me. I don't know whether to kiss you or chain you to my side forever."
Alfreda smirked. "Do both."
They moved fast through the estate, clearing room after room. Lachlan's loyal men were holding them back—for now. But Celia hadn't come to negotiate. She'd come to take.
On the security screen, they saw her. Walking in like a queen made of knives. Black coat. White hair. Silver pistol.
"She wants the vault," Alfreda said. "That's where the files are. Evidence. Secrets. Insurance."
"And what does she want with me?" Nathaniel asked, voice tight.
Alfreda hesitated.
"She raised me to kill monsters. But Celia… she saw you as the heir to hers. She wanted to mold you. Break you. Marry you to me, eventually. Control you."
His jaw clenched. "So I was a project."
"You were her masterpiece."
They reached the vault just as Celia's elite unit blew the outer wall.
Gunfire ripped through the air. Alfreda dove, rolled, took a hit to the arm—but didn't stop shooting. Nathaniel dragged her behind a marble pillar, hands slick with blood and fury.
"You're hurt."
"I'm alive. That's what matters."
They kissed—messy, desperate, bloody.
Then came her voice.
"You always were dramatic, darling."
Celia.
Standing ten feet away. Unarmed. Calm. A goddess of war.
"Lower your weapons," she said. "You're surrounded."
Alfreda didn't blink. "Try me."
"Still my favorite," Celia whispered. "But so, so foolish."
More men poured in. Too many.
They were captured.
The Widowmaker's dungeon was nothing like anyone imagined.
It was clean. Clinical. Frightening in its silence.
Alfreda was cuffed, shirt torn, shoulder bleeding. Nathaniel sat across from her, chained to the floor. Still seething.
Celia entered.
"I never meant to kill you, Nathaniel."
He spat. "You trained her to murder me."
"I trained her to protect herself."
She turned to Alfreda. "And you chose wrong."
"I chose freedom."
Celia stepped forward, touching Alfreda's cheek.
"You were mine."
"I'm still hers," Alfreda snapped, nodding at Nathaniel.
And that's when Celia lost it.
One sharp command—and Lachlan's man, traitor in disguise—dragged someone else in.
Alfreda froze.
It was Tracy.
Her hands tied. Her mouth gagged. Eyes wide with fear.
"I warned you," Celia said. "Love makes you weak. Watch me rip it from you piece by piece."
Alfreda screamed.
Nathaniel fought the chains.
But Celia?
She just smiled.