Christabel received an invitation.
Not to a party.
To a funeral.
The funeral of a woman she had never met.
A woman who had read her book.
A woman who had found hope too late.
---
The letter arrived on a Monday.
Black envelope. Silver trim. The kind of invitation that meant something formal. Something final.
You are invited to the memorial service of Monica Hayes.
Monica was a mother, a wife, a reader. She found solace in your words. She asked that you be notified.
Please come.
Christabel read the invitation three times.
Monica. The woman who had written her first letter. The woman who had said, "I've been lost for so long."
She was gone.
---
"She died," Christabel whispered.
Damien took the invitation.
Read it.
"Monica?"
"The woman who wrote to me. The one who said my book made her feel seen."
"What happened?"
"I don't know."
He pulled her into his arms.
"I'm sorry."
"I didn't even know her."
"You knew her heart."
---
That afternoon, Christabel wrote back.
Not to Monica. To Monica's family.
Dear Family of Monica,
I never met your wife, your mother, your friend. But she wrote to me. She told me she was lost. She told me my book made her feel seen.
I wish I could have done more. I wish I could have saved her.
I will come to the memorial. I will honor her memory. I will carry her with me.
With deepest sympathy,
Christabel Moreau
---
Damien watched her seal the envelope.
"You're going to the funeral?"
"Yes."
"I'll come with you."
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
She looked at him.
"Thank you."
---
That night, Christabel put Lena to bed.
Not Damien. Her.
She read her daughter a story. Not a baby book. A real story. One of her favorites.
"There was a woman who was lost," she read. "She wrote a letter. She reached out. But it was too late."
Lena stared at her.
"Bah," she said.
"That's right," Christabel said. "Bah."
---
Damien was in the doorway.
"She said it again."
"She said it to me."
"She said it to both of us."
She closed the book.
Set it on the nightstand.
"She's going to be a lifeline."
"She's going to be just like you."
"God help the world."
"God help anyone who tries to silence her."
---
They stood over the crib together.
Lena was asleep. Her tiny chest rose and fell.
"I don't want to be too late for anyone else," Christabel said.
"You're not."
"There are so many Monicas out there."
"Then help them. One letter at a time."
---
The next morning, Christabel woke to chaos.
Not the good kind.
The penthouse was buzzing. People running. Phones ringing.
Damien was in the living room, his face pale.
"What's happening?" Christabel asked.
"The Syndicate."
"The what?"
"A coalition. Volkov's people. Pierce's associates. Isabella. Adrian. Others. They've banded together."
"Against us?"
"Against everything we've built."
---
Jax appeared in the doorway.
He was new. Former soldier. Hired two weeks ago. He had a reputation for being brutally honest. For not sucking up. For saying exactly what he thought.
"So this is the famous couple," Jax said. "The ones who made everyone mad."
Damien glared at him.
"You must be Jax."
"The one and only. And let me tell you, boss, you've got a lot of enemies. Like, a surprising amount. Did you go out of your way to make people hate you, or did it just come naturally?"
Christabel laughed.
The sound was unexpected.
"I like him," she said.
"Of course you do," Jax said. "I'm likable. It's one of my many problems."
---
Nia walked in behind him.
She was also new. Also a soldier. Also hired two weeks ago.
She was Jax's opposite. Quiet. Professional. Didn't laugh at his jokes.
"Jax, stop talking," Nia said.
"I'm not talking. I'm bonding."
"You're annoying."
"I'm charming."
"You're delusional."
Christabel looked between them.
"Are you two together?"
"No," Nia said.
"Not yet," Jax said.
"Not ever," Nia said.
Jax grinned.
"That's what you say now."
---
The briefing was intense.
Cole stood at the front of the room. Maps on the wall. Photos of enemies.
"The Syndicate has at least twelve members," Cole said. "We've identified Volkov's son, Pierce's former associates, Isabella, Adrian, and several others. They're working together. Coordinating attacks."
"What kind of attacks?" Damien asked.
"Legal. Financial. Physical. They're hitting us from every angle."
---
As if on cue, the doorbell rang.
Tara, one of the new staff members, answered it.
She was loud. Loyal. Made Christabel laugh when she was sad.
"There's a guy here with papers," Tara called. "He looks official. And nervous. Should I let him in?"
"Papers?" Damien said.
"Legal papers. Like, lawsuit papers."
---
The room went silent.
A man in a cheap suit walked in.
He handed Damien a thick envelope.
"Damien Moreau, you've been served."
"Served with what?"
"A lawsuit. Dr. Marcus Webb is suing you for assault, battery, and emotional distress."
Damien's face didn't change.
But his hands tightened around the envelope.
---
Christabel took it from him.
Read the first page.
"He's asking for five million dollars."
"He won't get it."
"He might." She looked at him. "He has evidence. Your fingerprints. Witnesses. His testimony."
"It was my word against his."
"Not anymore. He has a lawyer. A good one."
---
Zoe appeared in the doorway.
She was sarcastic. Deadpan. Called out Damien's moods without flinching.
"So let me get this straight," Zoe said. "We have a villain alliance, a lawsuit, and a funeral to attend? And it's only Tuesday?"
"Tuesday?" Maya said, stumbling in behind her.
Maya was clumsy. Accident-prone. Chaos followed her everywhere.
She tripped over the rug.
Fell into Jax.
He caught her.
"Thanks," she said.
"Anytime," he said.
"Don't encourage her," Zoe said. "She's already a disaster."
"I'm not a disaster," Maya said. "I'm a free spirit."
"You're a liability."
"Same thing," Maya said.
"Different intention," Zoe finished.
Christabel laughed.
Despite everything, she laughed.
---
The next few days were chaos.
Lawyers. Meetings. Security briefings.
The Syndicate was relentless. Every time they blocked one attack, another came.
And the lawsuit hung over them like a cloud.
Damien was different. Quieter. More withdrawn.
"You're worried," Christabel said.
"I'm angry."
"Same thing."
"Different intention."
---
She took his hand.
"We've survived worse."
"Have we?"
"We've survived everything."
"This is different."
"How?"
"They're using the law. They're using our own system against us."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Then we fight back. The same way we always have."
---
That night, Christabel went to the garden.
The rose was still blooming.
The seedling was growing.
She knelt beside them.
"Monica died," she whispered.
The roses swayed.
"I didn't even know her. But she was part of me. Part of this story."
She touched the petals.
"I don't want to be too late for anyone else."
---
Damien appeared in the doorway.
"It's late," he said.
"I know."
"Come to bed."
"In a minute."
He walked to her.
Took her hand.
"What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking about the Syndicate. About the lawsuit. About Monica."
"And?"
"And I'm tired."
"You're allowed to be tired."
"I don't want to be tired. I want to fight."
"Then fight. But fight from a place of strength. Not exhaustion."
---
They walked to the bedroom together.
Not to make love.
To hold each other.
"The memorial is tomorrow," Christabel said.
"I know."
"I want to go alone."
"Christabel—"
"I need to do this myself. For her. For me."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Okay."
"Thank you."