The smell of gasoline was the first thing Elara noticed as she crawled from the wreckage of her car. Her vision was blurred, the world a tilt of moonlight and shadows. Vanderbilt’s fixer didn’t waste words. He kicked the cello case out of her reach and dragged her toward the abandoned theater—the same one where she had first seen Julian.

"The poetic justice is a bit much, isn't it?" the man sneered, tossing his lighter into a trail of fuel.

The old wood of the stage, dry as bone and soaked in a century of dust, ignited instantly. Elara was shoved into the center of the stage, her wrists bound with zip-ties to a heavy iron prop-weight.

"Julian’s ankle monitor is screaming right now," the fixer said, checking his watch. "He’s probably halfway here. But by the time he arrives, the building will be a chimney. He’ll get to watch you burn, just like his father watched your mother."

The flames licked at the velvet curtains—the same curtains Elara had hidden behind weeks ago. The heat was a physical wall, stealing the oxygen from her lungs. She looked up at the rafters, the smoke curling like dark ribbons, and for the first time, she wasn't afraid. She was furious.