Carlos knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into the compound a week later. It was too quiet. Not the natural lull of a resting operation, but an unnerving absence—the kind that came after something had already ended. The dust had settled, the usual armed guards nowhere in sight. Don Luis had finished his business. Old scores, settled. Blood debts, paid.

Carlos chose this moment to return.

He moved forward, surveying the space, noting the untouched chairs, the abandoned cigarettes curled into ash in an overflowing tray. Then, the flicker of a light in the office upstairs. Music. A slow, deliberate tune carried through the halls, threading itself through the silence.

He ascended the stairs, each step deliberate, measured. When he reached the office, he walked inside without hesitation, crossed the room, and lifted the pin off the record player. The music died.

Only then did he turn—and come face to face with Claudia.

She stood with the stillness of someone who had been waiting. Her long hair was pulled back into a tight bun, her posture impeccable. A government badge lay half-hidden under her blazer, its weight unspoken but undeniable.

Carlos exhaled, slow and steady. He wasn't sure what unsettled him more—the sight of her, or the fact that she wasn't surprised to see him.

"Oh, Carlos. You're not very bright," Claudia said, eyeing the haphazard display of large, rare gemstones strewn across his desk. Her voice carried an edge—not amusement, but something sharper.

Carlos barely spared her a glance. "What are you doing here?"

Claudia scoffed. "You're lucky it's just me. Not him. After what happened to Alison? That's cold, even for you, Carlos."

Carlos leaned back, his expression unreadable, but something flickered behind his eyes—resentment? Calculation? "Philip said he wouldn't hurt her. He gave me his word."

Claudia's jaw tightened. "He did hurt her."

Carlos reached for a large sapphire, turning it between his fingers like it was nothing more than a passing thought. "She survived. Richard's debt is paid. All is well in the universe again."

Silence stretched between them. Claudia's nails dug into her palms. The weight of his indifference, his detachment—it twisted something deep in her gut.

"You can't justify it," she murmured. "Not even to yourself."

Carlos smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Just watch me."

Claudia's eyes narrowed. The silence between them was brittle, ready to snap—until the door creaked open. 

Ruth. 

The dim light caught in the cascade of her red hair, the strands like burning embers in the stale air of the room. She didn't rush, didn't falter. Just the careful sound of her footsteps, measured and deliberate. 

Carlos stepped back. A fraction of an inch. Then another. 

Fear. 

It was subtle—an instinctive movement, a flicker of something unguarded in his expression—but Claudia saw it. She felt it.

"Call off your dog." He spat, voice raw with fury.

"Call her off. Now." He staggered back a step, but his stance remained braced—cornered, but not broken.

Ruth stepped forward, deliberate, slow. The air between them felt charged, thick with something unsaid. She tilted her head, watching him, weighing his fear against her own sense of control.

Ruth was silence, she didn't move. Her mere presence was a threat in itself despite her slender, petite shadow.

"You think that's how this works?" Claudia murmured.

He swallowed, hard.

"Ruth has her own history with Philip, as you know." Claudia took a slow step forward, watching him as she continued to study the gemstones, enjoying the way his shoulders stiffened. "Her cousin is more lenient than she is. Philip took her fingers this time. Took her tongue among other things last time. And now? Now she's pissed." She tilted her head, letting the weight of her next words settle like iron. "I told her she could have her revenge—starting with you."

Carlos' breath hitched. His fingers twitched at his sides—some useless attempt at control—but the fear had already bled through his eyes.

Claudia didn't stop. Didn't turn. She reached for the same large sapphire Carlos had picked up, running her thumb over its cold, perfect surface, then slipped it into her pocket before taking a few more uncut emeralds, a single ruby, and a handful of small diamonds, her fingers brushing over their jagged edges before tucking them away. Payment. A final gesture of indifference.

"Pleasure doing business Carols. Naturally this is now the end of our business relationship." Claudia said as Carlos opened his mouth—to reason, to plead—but Ruth took a step forward.

Carlos' hands lifted, defensive, shaking despite his efforts. Ruth watched, tilting her head like she was considering how much mercy she felt like granting. Her remaining fingers drummed against the polished oak desk, each tap making him flinch.

Claudia pulled the door open, metal handle cool against her palm. She didn't look back. Wouldn't. The carpet muffled her steps but couldn't quite hide the way her shoes sank with each stride, leaving temporary prints in the plush fabric.

Carlos' voice cracked as she crossed the threshold. "Claudia, please—" The words died as Ruth's drumming stopped.

"She's all yours Daniel. No evidence. Strip it clean." Claudia met his eyes as he leaned against the black SUV, smoke curling from his cigarette into the warm air. Danny nodded, no words needed as he walked towards the office, crushing the cigarette under his boot.

Claudia was already gone as Carlos screams started getting louder and louder.

***

Alice stood outside the HFBC Bank building, looking up. The sheer grandeur of it dwarfed her, its towering presence pressing down like the weight of expectation itself. The crisp, morning London air curled around her, cool against the exposed skin of her arms, but her body hummed with a different kind of chill—unease. She actually missed the Bahamas, she'd rather be anywhere else but here.

Her new, navy blue Chanel dress clung to her, a quiet declaration of effort, of transformation, but beneath the fabric, the bloody ridges of Philip's scars remained, unseen yet ever present, something that makeup will never truly cover. It was a her reminder.

She swallowed, shifting her weight, but the nervous energy still vibrated under her skin. Behind her, Clayton was quiet—solid, dressed simply in a black Henley shirt and dark jeans. He didn't touch her, didn't speak, but his presence loomed just close enough to remind her she wasn't alone. A faint shuffle of his boot against the pavement. A slow exhale.

"Will you protect me" she said, knowing that they'll be waiting, as she nervously spun her engagement ring around her finger.

"Always," Clayton said sharply, his hands brushing against her lower back.

"Good"

She lifted her chin, inhaled deep, and stepped forward.

Alice, following by Clayton, was led into the conference room by the receptionist, a polished redhead whose practiced smile never quite reached her eyes. The kind of girl Sam would have charmed in seconds—if he were here, if Paris hadn't pulled him away.

The air inside was too cool, sterile, the hum of quiet conversations muffled behind closed doors. She caught herself glancing back at the receptionist, as if searching for something familiar, something grounding, but the woman had already turned away, her attention flickering to the next guest. The moment dissolved, leaving only the weight of the room ahead.

"What the fuck is she doing here?" Meredith hissed, barely masking the alarm tightening her voice. Her fingers hovered near her lips before dropping abruptly, as if realizing the gesture had betrayed too much.

"Alison has every right to be here, Mer. You should know that," Frederick snapped, his voice clipped, controlled. His elbows pressed onto the long mahogany table, a show of defiance, but Alice could see the way his fingers curled slightly into his sleeves—a subtle tell he was nervous.

Alice tightened her grip on the folder against her chest as Clayton shifted beside her, quiet but solid. The murmur of old arguments and buried grievances swirled through the room, but she drowned them out.

She scanned the faces across from her—the same green eyes, their striking resemblance more a curse than a blessing. Meredith was the most uncanny if it wasn't for the blonde hair. For all their effortless wealth, their inherited confidence, she saw the cracks beneath their façades. They had lived too long in a world where their positions were unquestioned. It was time they learned the consequences of comfort.

"Shall we begin, little sister?" George finally spoke, sinking into his seat beside Meredith. His voice carried its usual calm, but his fingers tapped a barely perceptible rhythm against the smooth wood—a sign Alice had long learned to recognize.

She took her own seat, the heat of Clayton's presence just behind her a quiet reassurance. All eyes locked onto her, a silent challenge.

Good. She wanted them watching.

"I'll liquidate the hotel. It's been bleeding money for years," she said, her voice even, deliberate.

Meredith sucked in a breath through her teeth—sharp, barely restrained. George's fingers halted mid-tap, frozen in thought. Frederick adjusted his cuff, a motion so practiced it might have gone unnoticed to anyone else.

Alice tilted her head slightly, watching them scramble to mask their reactions. "I'll keep the apartments in New York and LA. The London house. The Norfolk estate. The château in the South of France." She let the silence settle, let them absorb the weight of her words. "And, naturally, the lands and neighboring rental properties. Let all the staff stay on. Keep the farms running. Any personal assets such as bank accounts and cars et cetera, fall under my jurisdiction—my mother's jewelry and artwork collection included."

A heavier silence. The kind that stretched, suffocated.

Meredith's jaw tightened. Her fingers curled inward against the silk of her sleeve, her French nails pressing so tightly it might leave a mark.

Frederick reached for his drink, took a slow sip, calculating his next move.

George exhaled through his nose, voice edged with careful diplomacy. "You don't have the authority to make those decisions unilaterally."

Alice let the silence stretch, savoring it—watching the way tension settled into their bones, waiting for the moment it cracked.

"Careful. You three might get nothing." Her voice was measured, a blade sliding clean through the conversation.

Meredith jerked forward, eyes narrowing, disbelief shattering into something raw and desperate. Clayton quickly stepped forward, Alice's flick of her hand calm him enough to step back. "You can't do that. We are his legitimate children. You are a bastard. Frederick is his heir," she spat, a tremor lacing the fury in her voice.

Frederick exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening around the stem of his pen. George's lips parted slightly, but he said nothing—watching, calculating, deciding where to place his next move.

Alice only tilted her head, arms folding tightly against her chest, her expression unreadable.

"You don't know do you Meredith? He married my mother. I'm much of a Booth than you think. He left me everything in the wake of his incarceration."

The words landed heavier than the silence that followed.

Meredith's manicured French nails dug into the smooth table surface, her jaw tightening as if physically restraining herself from launching into another protest. Frederick set his pen down with deliberate care, his movements slow, controlled—masking whatever storm brewed behind his composed exterior.

Only George remained still, green eyes flicking to Clayton, to Alice, then back to the folder in her hands.

"Tell me," he murmured, voice deceptively calm, "is this about fairness, or is this about revenge?"

Alice let the question hang between them, feeling Clayton shift beside her—silent but steady. Then, finally, she gave George the smallest, most satisfied smile.

"Does it matter?"

It unraveled quickly after that.

Meredith's chair scraped violently against the polished floors as she shoved to her feet, hands shaking as they slammed against the table. "You think you can just walk in here and—"

"I don't think, Meredith," Alice interrupted, rising from her own seat with perfect ease. Clayton moving beside her. "I know." 

George turned on Fredrick, jaw tight, voice lowering to a venomous whisper as he started demanding details—how much had he known, how long had he let this unfold? Meredith was nearly shouting now, frustration tangling with panic, her words colliding into each other as she tried to spin the narrative back into her control.

But Alice was already done.

She picked up the folder, straightened her shoulders, and turned away from them, not bothering to linger. She had given them their reckoning—what came after was no longer her concern.

Clayton fell into step beside her without a word.

As they reached the door, the sounds of heated arguing rose behind them—George, clipped and cutting, Frederick, sharp-edged, and Meredith, unraveling. Alice barely spared them a glance as Clayton quickly opened the door, ushering her through with a hand on her back.

The last thing she heard before stepping out was Meredith screaming her name.

Alice didn't stop. She never would again.