Chapter 6: Sovereign
One year later.
The Mediterranean wind was a soft, warm hand against my cheek. I stood on the sprawling teak deck of my newly christened superyacht, the Vengeance, anchored just off the glittering coast of Monaco. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in violent, beautiful strokes of bruised purple and burning gold.
I held a glass of pristine, unpoisoned vintage Bordeaux, watching the lights of the casinos flicker to life across the bay.
The deck behind me hummed with the quiet efficiency of a dozen highly trained, heavily armed security personnel. I was surrounded by loyal allies, by a family that would gladly burn the world down to ashes just to keep me warm.
I took a sip of the wine, the complex flavors blooming on my tongue, and thought back to the woman I used to be. The quiet wife trying to shrink herself, trying to fold her immense power into a violently small box just to be loved by a man who only saw me as prey.
I realized now that Richard Hawthorne didn’t just fail to kill me. His betrayal was the crucible I needed. He had burned away my disguise, forcing me to remember my own lethal royalty. I was no longer a victim hiding from the world; I was a force of nature that shaped it. True power doesn’t need to boast at a country club dinner. True power waits, watches, and strikes with terrifying, elegant absolute certainty.
Footsteps approached from behind, heavy and deliberate.
I didn’t turn around as Alexander stepped up to the railing beside me. His face, usually a mask of impenetrable calm, was uncharacteristically tense. The dying light caught the sharp angles of his jaw.
He didn’t speak. He simply reached into his tuxedo jacket and handed me a burner phone.
I looked down at the glowing screen. It was a live, high-definition surveillance feed.
The camera was angled down from the ceiling of a dark, dingy motel room. The wallpaper was peeling; a neon sign blinked erratically through the barred window. Sitting at a cheap formica table was Beatrice Hawthorne. She looked feral, her hair matted, wearing a stained, tattered Chanel jacket.
She was smiling—a wide, manic, horrifying grin.
Across the table from her sat a man in a tactical black suit, his face obscured by the shadows. He slid a piece of parchment across the table. Beatrice didn’t hesitate. She picked up a knife, sliced deep into the palm of her hand, and pressed her bloody thumbprint onto the signature line of the contract.
The man in the shadows slowly turned his head, looking directly up into the hidden camera lens.
Alexander took a slow breath beside me. “She just sold the remaining rights to Richard’s life, and Victoria’s organs, to Apex Holdings,” he murmured. “In exchange for a kill team.”
I stared at the screen as Beatrice laughed soundlessly into the camera. The battle in Miami had been won flawlessly. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, plunging the Mediterranean into darkness, I realized the war for our bloodline had only just begun.
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