Locked. Here's the next chapter—clean continuation, no resets—built around the street confrontation, the emotional knife-fight with Lucía, Cassandra moving pieces in the background, and the PI closing the circle on Julian. High tension, visceral, forward-driving.
Chapter Forty-Three — Streetlight Blood
I run into Lucía by accident.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
It's late afternoon, the hour when the city pretends it's calm—sunlight slanting low, storefront windows turning reflective, people walking with purpose but not urgency. I'm stepping out of a café near my building, security flanking me at a polite distance, when I see her across the street.
She's alone.
No cameras.
No handlers.
No Cassandra.
Just Lucía—hair loose, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown she thinks she's earned.
My first instinct is to keep walking.
My second is to stop.
"Wait," I say, already turning.
Security shifts immediately. One of them murmurs my name, a question. I shake my head once.
"It's fine," I say. "Let me handle this."
Lucía sees me then. Her mouth curves—not a smile, not quite—but something pleased flickers there. She steps off the curb and crosses toward me like she's been rehearsing this moment.
"Well," she says lightly, stopping a few feet away. "Look who finally decided to show up."
I don't answer.
She laughs, brittle. "Don't tell me you're scared of your own cousin now."
"Say what you need to say," I reply. My voice surprises me—steady, even. "And then we're done."
She scoffs. "You always did think you got to decide when things were done."
People pass us on the sidewalk, slowing just enough to register tension. My security remains close but unobtrusive, forming a quiet perimeter.
Lucía's eyes flick past them, then back to me. "Must be nice," she says. "Having guards. Having millions. All handed to you."
"Nothing was handed to me," I say.
She snorts. "You barely knew him."
There it is.
The thing she's been holding like a shard of glass.
"I visited him every year," she snaps. "Every. Single. Year. Birthdays. Holidays. I showed up. You didn't."
I feel a flash of heat in my chest, but I keep my posture loose, grounded. "You showed up to be seen," I say quietly. "He didn't value attendance. He valued effort."
Her face tightens.
"He hated lazy children," I continue. "He said it outright. That ambition mattered more than perfunctory visits. He told me that himself."
Lucía's breath stutters. "That's a lie."
"It's not," I say. "And you know it."
She steps closer, invading my space. "You think you're better than me because you climbed some corporate ladder?"
"I think I earned his respect," I reply. "And you resented that."
Her hand comes up fast.
I catch her wrist instinctively.
For a split second, we're locked there—her nails digging into my skin, my grip firm but controlled. Her face twists with something ugly and raw.
"Let go of me," she hisses.
"Walk away," I say.
She doesn't.
She shoves me.
Not hard enough to hurt—hard enough to provoke.
The sound of it ripples through the sidewalk. A gasp. A phone lifted somewhere.
Before security can step in, Lucía lunges again, fingers clawing at my jacket. I stumble back a half-step, adrenaline surging, and for a heartbeat we're grappling—ungraceful, messy, two women locked in a collision of blood and betrayal.
"Thief!" she screams. "You stole from us!"
Security moves then—swift, decisive. They pull us apart, one man bracing Lucía's shoulders, another stepping between us.
She thrashes, eyes wild. "This isn't over!" she yells over their arms. "You hear me? You don't get to win!"
I straighten my jacket, hands shaking now that the moment has passed.
"I already did," I say, not raising my voice. "You just didn't notice."
She glares at me as they guide her back, still shouting, still promising retribution.
I don't watch her leave.
My heart is hammering, breath shallow, but there's a strange clarity settling in my chest. She wanted to break me in public.
She failed.
Back in the car, silence presses in. One of the guards glances at me through the rearview mirror.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yes," I say. And this time, I mean it.
My phone vibrates as we pull away.
Private Investigator.
I answer immediately.
"We're close," he says without preamble. His voice is taut now, energized. "We narrowed it to a single facility. Private. Off-record. Security-heavy."
My pulse spikes. "How close?"
"Close enough that Cassandra's moving assets again," he replies. "She's preparing for a loss."
"And Julian?" I ask, barely breathing.
A pause—shorter than before.
"He's alive," the PI says. "And if we're right, we can recover him."
My eyes close.
"Soon?" I whisper.
"Soon," he confirms. "But it'll get ugly before it gets clean."
I hang up and lean back against the seat, the city blurring past the window.
Lucía's voice echoes in my head—this isn't over—but for the first time, it sounds small.
Because somewhere nearby, Cassandra Archer is realizing that family weapons cut both ways.
And somewhere even closer, Julian Archer is no longer as unreachable as she thought.
The streetlight outside flicks from red to green.
We move forward.
And this time, I don't look back.