Christabel went to Monica's funeral.
She stood in the back.
She didn't speak.
But when the service was over, a woman approached her.
"You're the one who wrote the book," the woman said.
"Your mother read it before she died."
---
The church was small.
White walls. Wooden pews. Stained glass windows that cast colored light on the floor.
Christabel had arrived early. Before the family. Before the crowd.
She sat in the last row.
Alone.
Damien had wanted to come. She had asked him to stay. This was something she needed to do herself.
---
The service was simple.
Prayers. Hymns. A eulogy from Monica's husband.
He talked about her laugh. Her cooking. The way she lit up a room.
He didn't talk about her pain.
He didn't talk about her darkness.
He didn't talk about the letters she had written, searching for hope.
Christabel understood. Some things were too heavy to share with a room full of mourners.
---
When the service ended, Christabel stood to leave.
But a woman blocked her path.
Mid-forties. Dark hair. Kind eyes. Red from crying.
"You're Christabel Moreau."
"Yes."
"I'm Elena. Monica's sister."
Christabel's heart clenched.
"I'm so sorry for your loss."
"She talked about you. Before she died. She talked about your book. About your letters. About the hope you gave her."
"I wish I could have done more."
Elena took her hand.
"You did everything. You saw her. When she felt invisible, you saw her."
---
They walked out of the church together.
The sun was bright.
The sky was blue.
"Can I ask you something?" Elena said.
"Of course."
"Why did you come? You didn't know her."
Christabel was quiet for a moment.
"Because she wrote to me. Because she trusted me with her pain. Because I couldn't let her feel alone. Not even in death."
Elena cried.
Christabel held her.
---
The drive back to the penthouse was quiet.
Damien was waiting.
"How was it?"
"Heartbreaking."
"Did you speak?"
"I couldn't."
"Did anyone recognize you?"
"Her sister. Elena."
"What did she say?"
"She thanked me. For seeing her sister."
---
He pulled her into his arms.
"I'm proud of you."
"For what?"
"For going. For showing up. For not running."
She looked at him.
"I'm learning to stay."
---
That afternoon, chaos erupted.
The Syndicate made their first coordinated move.
Not a physical attack.
An information attack.
They released documents to the press. Damien's past. The bodies. The basement. The people who had disappeared.
The headlines were brutal.
"Moreau: Monster or Murderer?"
"The Truth About the Empire."
"Why Hasn't He Been Arrested?"
---
Damien read the articles in silence.
His face was calm. Too calm.
Jax walked into the room.
"So, boss, you've got a PR problem."
Damien looked at him.
"A what?"
"A public relations problem. You know, people thinking you're a monster. Which, to be fair, you kind of are. But still."
"You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to help. I'm trying to make you laugh. It's not working."
---
Zoe appeared in the doorway.
"The phones are ringing off the hook. Journalists. Investors. Random people who want to tell you you're going to hell."
"Great," Damien said.
"Also, Maya fell down the stairs."
"Is she okay?"
"She's fine. She tripped over a plant. She's currently arguing with the plant."
Christabel laughed.
The sound was unexpected.
"Did you just laugh?" Damien asked.
"I did."
"At a time like this?"
"Especially at a time like this."
---
Tara walked in with a tray of coffee.
"I don't know much about PR crises or villain alliances," she said. "But I do know that caffeine helps. Drink."
She handed a cup to Damien.
He took it.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. Also, there's a guy named Marcus on the phone. He says he's your lawyer?"
Damien's jaw tightened.
"Put him through."
---
The call lasted an hour.
Marcus Webb's lawyer was demanding a settlement. Five million dollars. Or they would go to trial.
"If this goes to trial," the lawyer said, "your past becomes public. Every body. Every basement. Every person who disappeared."
Damien was silent.
"Five million is cheap, Mr. Moreau. Compared to what you'll lose in a courtroom."
---
Damien hung up.
Christabel was beside him.
"What did they say?"
"Five million. Or trial."
"We have five million."
"It's not about the money."
"What is it about?"
He looked at her.
"Principle."
---
That night, Christabel put Lena to bed.
Not Damien. Her.
Lena was fussy. Teething. Nothing made her happy.
"Bah," Lena said. But it wasn't happy. It was angry.
"I know, little one," Christabel said. "Your teeth hurt. Your mouth hurts. Everything hurts."
Lena cried.
"I know. I feel the same way sometimes."
---
Damien appeared in the doorway.
"She's not sleeping?"
"She's teething."
"Do you need help?"
"Just hold her."
He took Lena from her arms.
The baby cried.
Then stopped.
Then looked at her father.
"Da," she said.
Damien froze.
"What did she say?"
"She said 'Da.'"
"That's not a word."
"It's her word."
"Da," Lena said again.
Damien's eyes were wet.
"She said my name."
"She said part of your name."
"She said my name."
---
Christabel laughed.
The sound was warm.
"She's going to be a daddy's girl."
"She's going to be just like you."
"God help the world."
"God help anyone who tries to take her father away."
---
They stood over the crib together.
Lena was asleep. Her tiny chest rose and fell.
"The Syndicate," Christabel said.
"What about them?"
"They're not going to stop."
"Neither are we."
"The lawsuit."
"We'll handle it."
"The press."
"We'll survive."
She looked at him.
"How do you stay so calm?"
He took her hand.
"Because I have you."