“No one should be forced to stay because they fear walking away with nothing.”
My voice hardened.
“We will be their sword. And we will be their armor.”
The room erupted into a standing ovation.
I smiled, then stepped away from the podium and walked past reporters toward the VIP tables.
Jonathan stood in the shadows, older now but proud. Beside him was my five-year-old daughter in a dark blue velvet dress.
Lillian ran toward me.
I scooped her into my arms and held her tightly, breathing in her shampoo, her warmth, her life.
Grant was a ghost. My intelligence team sent occasional updates. I rarely read them. He had been denied parole again. He was cleaning floors in a federal prison, forgotten by the world.
His name no longer frightened me.
That night, back in our penthouse suite, I tucked Lillian into her silk-canopied bed.
She looked up at me with wide blue eyes.
“Mommy,” she whispered, clutching her stuffed bear, “a girl at school said everyone has a daddy. She asked what mine does. Where is mine?”
Once, that question would have broken me.
Now, I felt only stillness.
“Some people are stepping stones,” I said softly, brushing hair from her forehead. “They teach us how to cross the mud without getting stuck in it.”
I kissed her cheek.
“You do not have a father, my love. You have a kingdom. And you have a mother who would burn the world to ash before letting anyone tell you that you are nothing.”
Lillian smiled sleepily and closed her eyes.
I turned off the lamp and stepped into the hallway.
My encrypted phone vibrated.
A priority message from Bennett appeared on the screen.
Target located in Zurich. The files on your mother’s disappearance were in the vault, just as you suspected. Jonathan lied.
I stared at the glowing words in the dark hallway.
The mother in me went still.
The CEO in me woke up.
A new game was beginning in the shadows.
But this time, I was not the frightened pawn waiting to be sacrificed.
I was Maya Whitaker.
