"Four little boys walked into a restaurant bathroom only

Marcus Vance stormed into the loft, his face purple with rage, his custom-tailored Brioni suit jacket flapping open as a cameraman squeezed past him into the foyer, holding a professional rig rolling in real-time.

"Turn that camera off," I said, stepping into the center of the room, my voice carrying the icy authority of a man who had commanded thousands of employees.

"Not a chance, Julian!" Marcus roared, pointing a trembling finger at my chest. "You broke a legally binding betrothal agreement before the eyes of New York society! Serena is destroyed, my stock is tanking, and you think you can just hole up in your bachelor pad like a recluse? We are filing a fifty-million-dollar lawsuit—"

"File whatever you want, Marcus," I interrupted, my voice cutting through his tirade like a scalpel.

I picked up a manila folder from the dining table and tossed it across the room. It landed squarely at Marcus's feet, papers spilling out across the polished concrete.

Marcus looked down. His eyes scanned the top page—a forensic audit detailing the shell companies Vance Media Group had used over the past three years to illegally siphon funds from municipal real estate contracts—contracts my family’s legal team had quietly facilitated.

"What... what is this?" Marcus stammered, all the blustery outrage instantly draining from his face, leaving him looking like an old, frightened man.

"This is the evidence proving that your family's fortune is built on stolen city land and fraudulent zoning permits," I said smoothly, walking toward him until I stood inches away. "Your merger with the Mercer family wasn't about love or social standing, Marcus. It was a defensive merger. Your father-in-law—my mother—was bailing you out of a federal indictment. If you file a fifty-million-dollar lawsuit against me, I will hand these files directly to the Department of Justice before dinner."

Marcus looked from the papers on the floor to my face. The sweat beading on his forehead was entirely real.

"You wouldn't," he whispered. "That would destroy your own family's holdings, too."

"My family's holdings are already built on ash," I replied. "Now, get your cameraman, get out of my home, and tell Serena I wish her the best. If you ever come near my door again, I won't use lawyers."

Marcus swallowed hard, turned on his heel, and practically dragged his cameraman back into the elevator without uttering another word.

The doors closed, sealing the loft in sudden, profound silence.

I turned around. Elena was standing by the window, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read—a mix of awe, shock, and deep, enduring affection.

"You just declared war on your mother and your business partners all at once," she said softly.

"I told you," I replied, crossing the room to stand beside her, looking out over the sprawling Manhattan skyline as the winter sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the clouds in bruised shades of purple and gold. "I'm done playing their game."

My phone buzzed again. It wasn't Marcus. It wasn't the press.

It was a direct text from an unknown, encrypted number.

“Come to the townhouse on 74th Street alone. If you want the truth about what happened six years ago—and if you want to keep your children from being dragged into a grand jury investigation—you have twenty minutes.”