Smoke in the Mirror

Arnold hadn't slept.

Not in any real sense. He'd stayed in his penthouse office, lights off, city lights flickering beneath him like dying stars.

Lucas had just left. The report had been brief but devastating.

Lilith's café... destroyed.

Gas explosion, the fire marshal said. But Lucas had already spoken to people who said there was no smell of gas. No warning. Just fire. Controlled. Precise.

Arnold leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

He should feel anger. Rage, even. But all he felt was a sharp, quiet ache in his chest.

He had pushed Lilith away.

And now—someone else had closed in.

The timing wasn't random. The fire, the message, the pressure—it was Victor. Arnold didn't need proof. He knew the man's methods. Brutal, theatrical. He'd seen them used on competitors. Rivals. Family.

But this time, it was personal.

He stood up abruptly and crossed to his desk. Picked up his phone.

"Isabella," he said when she answered. "Where is Victor Sterling right now?"

There was a pause. Then, her voice, clipped and alert. "Rumors say he's in town. But I tracked a private jet to Lagos three days ago. Could be a cover."

Arnold was already pulling on his coat. "Get me everything. Every move, every associate. I want him watched."

"Understood."

He paused. Then added, "And find Lilith. Make sure someone's with her. I don't care if she knows. Just don't let her out of your sight."

Isabella was silent for a beat.

"You still trust her?"

Arnold didn't answer.

—

Meanwhile, Lilith sat alone in Athena's apartment, staring at the scorched jacket in her lap. The only thing she'd been able to grab before the flames consumed the building.

She hadn't cried. Not yet.

She couldn't afford to.

Victor had drawn first blood. And she knew now: she could no longer hide. Not from Arnold. Not from Victor. Not even from herself.

"Either I run," she whispered aloud, voice hoarse, "or I burn everything down before he can."

Her phone buzzed. A text.

From an unknown number.

"Time's up."