The Davison estate was a fortress of old money. It wasn't just a home; it was a statement in stone and ivy.
Limousines glided up the sweeping drive, disgorging men in tuxedos and women in gowns worth more than a Warrens tenement.
Victor's car was a sleek shadow among them.
He adjusted his cufflinks, his movements precise. Beside him, Elara was a vision in emerald green silk.
The dress was armor. Her scent was calm jasmine, layered with a sharp, alert citrus.
"Nervous?" he asked, his voice low.
"I'm excited," she corrected, a razor's smile on her lips. "They think they're safe behind these walls. Let's see their faces when the wolves walk in."
The car stopped. A uniformed attendant opened the door. Victor stepped out, then offered his hand to Elara. The bond between them was a live wire, humming with focused intensity.
They moved as one unit up the marble steps. The grand double doors were open, spilling light and the sound of a string quartet into the night.
A steward in livery checked a list at the entrance. His eyes widened when they approached. "Sir, Madam. Your names… I don't seem to have—"
"Sterling," Victor said, the word a command. "And Whitethorn. We're expected."
He didn't wait for permission. He guided Elara past the sputtering steward, crossing the threshold into the lion's den.
The entry hall was a cathedral to excess. A crystal chandelier hung like a frozen waterfall. Conversations hushed as they entered. Heads turned. Glasses paused midway to lips.
The air, thick with expensive perfume and Alpha dominance, suddenly sharpened. Victor's scent of ozone and winter cut through the room, a deliberate challenge.
Charles Davison stood by a grand fireplace, holding court. He saw them and his face froze, a mask of polite horror cracking over pure rage.
Victor didn't look away. He held the man's gaze as they advanced, a slow, deliberate walk through the parted crowd.
"Victor. Elara." Alexander Vance materialized from the crowd, a practiced smile on his face. The paternalistic poison was back. "What an… unexpected surprise. I wasn't aware you moved in these circles."
"We're expanding our horizons," Elara said, her voice carrying a sweet, deadly chill. "After your warm welcome the other day, we felt a personal thank you was in order."
Vance's smile didn't reach his eyes. "This is a private gathering."
"Is it?" Victor asked, scanning the room. "I see senators. I see planning commissioners. I see the head of the port authority. That looks very public to me."
He let the implication hang. A gathering of this influence, unrecorded, was its own kind of vulnerability.
Davison finally broke from his group and stormed over. "You have no invitation. This is a gross violation of decorum. Security!"
"Call them," Victor said, his voice dropping to a conversational tone that was more threatening than a shout.
"I'd love to discuss the provenance of a certain pocket watch with the police. In front of all your guests."
Davison paled. His eyes darted to Vance, a silent plea.
Vance stepped in, the smooth diplomat. "Now, now, Charles. Guests are guests. Even unexpected ones." His gaze slid to Elara.
"Though one might question the taste of bringing an Omega into such a… strenuous political discussion."
The insult was deliberate, a test of Victor's control in front of the entire Old Guard.
Elara laughed. It was a light, genuine sound that disarmed the tension for a split second before she spoke.
"Mr. Vance, please. I spend my days navigating federal committees run by Alphas who think with their glands instead of their brains. This," she gestured around the opulent room, "is a garden party. Don't confuse a silk dress for a white flag."
A few muffled chuckles came from the edges of the crowd. She had turned his condescension into a joke at his expense.
"We're not here to ruin your evening," Victor said, though his eyes said otherwise. "We're here to deliver a message. In person."
He raised his voice slightly, ensuring it carried. "The Sterling-Whitethorn Initiative breaks ground next week. The museum will be built. My mate's political career will continue. And any consortium, circle, or club that thinks it can stop us with petty threats and stolen mementos…"
He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the rapt, hostile faces.
"…will learn what happens when you mistake mercy for weakness."
The silence was absolute. The string quartet had stopped playing.
Vance's veneer finally cracked. "You arrogant pup. You think this is a game of wills? We built this city. We decide what grows in its soil."
"You decided for a long time," Elara countered, stepping forward. Her presence was commanding, every inch the federal official.
"And look at the crop. The Warrens. The inequality. The system that let a man like Finch operate with your blessing. Your harvest is rotten."
Davison found his voice, shrill with fury. "You dare speak of Dr. Finch? A tragic figure. A man you had imprisoned!"
Victor moved so fast it was a blur. He didn't touch Davison. He simply closed the distance until he was inches away, looming over the older man. The air turned icy.
"We have my mother's diaries, Charles," Victor whispered, the words for Davison alone, yet the entire room strained to hear.
"We have the list. The Aethelburg Circle. We know who gave Finch his mandate. We know you funded him."
Davison's breath hitched. The blood drained from his face completely. This was the pressure point.
Victor leaned in, his final whisper a death sentence.
"You have until tomorrow to publicly withdraw your objections to the Initiative and resign from the Historical Society board.
Or every page pertaining to you and your friends gets leaked to the press. Starting with your little 'preservation' society's role in my parents' cover-up."
He stepped back. The spell broke. Davison looked like a marionette with its strings cut.
Victor offered his arm to Elara. "I believe we've overstayed our welcome."
They turned and walked back through the silent crowd. The attendees parted like the Red Sea, fear and fascination on their faces.
No one stopped them. No security came.
They reached the grand doors and stepped back into the cool night. The sound of panicked, furious whispering erupted behind them before the doors swung shut, muffling the chaos.
In the car, Elara let out a long, shaky breath. The adrenaline was crashing. "That was… incredibly dangerous."
"It was necessary," Victor said, but his hand found hers, gripping it tightly. His own heart was hammering against his ribs.
"We had to show them we're not afraid to walk into the heart of their power. That we have the weapon that can destroy them."
"Do we?" she asked. "The diaries are a threat, but proving it legally…"
"We don't need to prove it in court," Victor said, his eyes reflecting the passing city lights. "We just need them to believe we will. Fear is the currency here. We just made a massive deposit."
His phone buzzed. A text from Jax.
Jax: Watch trace is a dead end. Clean. But deep dive on the courier shell company shows a link to a holding firm. Its board has one silent partner. A shell within a shell. The name on the final doc is a lawyer. His biggest client is Alexander Vance.
Victor showed Elara the screen. "The confirmation. Vance sent the watch."
"He wanted to unbalance you before tonight," she realized. "So you'd be emotional, reckless. He didn't expect you to be cold and armed with his secrets."
Victor's lips curved in a grim smile. "Their first mistake was targeting you. Their second was thinking my past was a weakness. It's a map of their crimes."
The car pulled up to the penthouse. As they rode the elevator up, the weight of the night settled on them. They had won the skirmish. They had exposed a nerve and struck it.
But the war was just beginning. The Consortium was wounded, not dead. A cornered animal was most dangerous.
Back in the living room, Elara slipped off her heels. "They'll retaliate. Quickly. And not with symbolic gifts."
"I know," Victor said, pouring two glasses of water. "We've forced their hand. The next move will be against something real. A physical asset. A person."
Their eyes met. The same fear, unspoken, passed between them.
Lillian.
Elara's mother was their most vulnerable point. She was in a private care facility, but she was a target.
"I'll double her security. Discreetly," Victor said, reading her thought. "Jax can place his most trusted people. We'll move her if we have to."
Elara nodded, gratitude warring with anxiety. "Thank you."
She walked to the terrace doors, looking out at the glittering city. "This is the cost, isn't it? This life. We'll always have a target on our backs. On the backs of everyone we love."
Victor came to stand behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. "We could walk away. Sell everything. Disappear."
She leaned back into his solid warmth. "Could you?"
He was silent for a long moment. "No. This is our city too. We have a right to build our future in it."
"Then we protect our own," she said, resolve hardening her voice. "And we hit them so hard they never think of targeting us again."
The following morning, the news broke.
Charles Davison announced his immediate retirement from public life due to "health reasons."
He resigned from the Historical Society board and issued a statement fully endorsing the Sterling-Whitethorn Initiative.
It was a stunning, public capitulation.
The financial blogs, however, were lit up with a different story. Anonymous, detailed leaks about Alexander Vance's complex offshore network were causing a regulatory panic. His stock was plunging.
The Consortium had been served their first defeat. They were bleeding money and credibility.
Victor stood in his office, watching the ticker symbols of Vance's holdings flash red. It was a satisfying sight. But he felt no triumph. Only vigilance.
His intercom buzzed. "Mr. Sterling," his assistant said, her voice oddly strained. "There's a… delivery for you. It was left at the security desk downstairs. It's a single envelope. The guard said it was delivered by a child who just ran off."
A chill slithered down Victor's spine. "Bring it up. Now."
The envelope was plain, white, standard business size. No postage. His name was typed on the front.
He slit it open with a letter opener. Inside was a single, high-resolution photograph.
It showed Lillian Whitethorn, sitting in a sunroom at her care facility, reading a book. The photo was taken through a window, from a distance, with a long lens. It was taken yesterday.
Scrawled across the bottom in bold, black ink were three words:
"No more warnings."
The message was clear. They had found the vulnerability. They had photographed it. The watch was the past. This was the present. The threat was immediate.
Victor's fist clenched, crumpling the photograph. The cold, surgical fury that filled him was absolute.
They had just declared war on his family.
He picked up his phone, his voice a low, deadly calm as it connected to Jax.
"Move her. Now. Code Black. And Jax… find the photographer. I don't care how. I want a name. Today."
He ended the call and looked at the crumpled photo. The peaceful moment, violated.
The Consortium had made their next move.
And Victor Sterling was done playing defense.