There are two kinds of betrayal:
The kind that surprises you —
And the kind that stabs you exactly where you once felt safe.
This was the second kind.
Viktor Leon had given Mirelle her first piece of power.
He'd told her once, "You have claws, girl. Use them."
And she did. She used them for him.
But while she cleaned up Hollow House and hunted monsters in silk suits, Viktor kept selling girls — quietly, overseas.
He wasn't out in the open like the others.
He stayed clean. Untouchable. A shadow behind good men.
Mirelle had once called him a mentor.
Now she called him a coward with a crown.
She didn't confront him in the club or the boardroom.
She waited until he was alone, sipping wine on the rooftop of his high-rise.
He was older now. White in his beard. But his eyes were still sharp.
"You came to kill me?" he asked without looking at her.
"I came to ask you why."
He turned. "Why I what?"
"Why you kept selling them," she said. "After everything. After me."
His lips curled. "It was business."
Wrong answer.
She moved in close, silent as smoke. "You let me believe I was cleaning up your mess. But all the while, you were spreading it."
He didn't deny it. "You were good at what you did. I thought you'd figure it out sooner."
"You were grooming me for your throne."
He shrugged. "Better you than some idiot with no spine."
She smiled, bitter.
"You know the worst part?" she asked. "You didn't even have the guts to do the dirty work. You paid others. Hid behind middlemen. That's not power, Viktor. That's rot."
He stood slowly.
"You think you're clean, Mirelle? You're not. You've got blood on your hands just like me."
She nodded. "I do. But I bled to stop it. You bled to profit."
They stood in silence.
Then he asked, quietly, "So what now?"
She didn't shoot him.
She made it worse.
The next morning, his accounts were frozen.
Every broker, smuggler, and fence he'd ever used had files leaked to the press.
A scandal broke across five countries.
Interpol issued a warrant.
His guards turned on him. His deals dissolved. His name, once whispered like law, became a warning.
He ran.
To where, Mirelle didn't care.
But she left something on his desk the night before he disappeared:
A copy of the contract he'd once had her sign — back when she was poor, desperate, naïve.
Across the bottom, she'd written:
"The girl you owned owns you now."
Four down. One left.