The sky outside the estate was still wrapped in black when Aria opened her eyes.
She hadn't set an alarm.
Hadn't needed to.
Something colder than habit had woken her — something primal, sharpened inside her chest.
The feeling of being hunted.
Or maybe it was the first taste of becoming the hunter instead.
Aria rose silently, slipping from the bed without disturbing the sheets.
The room was chilled; the storm had dropped the temperature overnight, leaving the mansion's old bones creaking under the weight of wind and rain.
She didn't shiver.
The cold anchored her.
Pulled her sharper into herself.
The outfit she chose wasn't loud — black slacks, a soft charcoal blouse tucked neatly under a tailored coat.
No jewelry.
No unnecessary armor.
Dressed not like someone attending a funeral.
Dressed like someone preparing for war.
In the study, the USB Vincent had left her still sat beside the closed laptop, waiting.
The small, battered drive looked almost harmless now under the dull glow of the desk lamp.
Almost.
Aria sat down, replugged it, and opened the video one more time.
Not to mourn.
To listen.
Every word was a puzzle piece.
Every pause a clue.
She scribbled two notes into the small black notebook she kept hidden inside the desk drawer.
Nothing emotional.
Just facts.
Names.
Shadows.
A soft buzz broke the silence.
Aria glanced at the burner phone she'd purchased on her own — a device no one else in the house knew about.
A single message blinked:
CFO TEMP: CALL ASAP — URGENT MOVEMENT
She didn't hesitate.
The call connected before the second ring.
"Miss Moreau," the man's voice was strained, barely keeping calm.
"There's been movement in several offshore accounts tied to Moreau subsidiaries. Overnight."
Aria stilled.
"And?"
"And…" the CFO hesitated, breath crackling across the line.
"It's not protocol.
It wasn't authorized.
And the amounts — they're not small."
A beat.
"How much?"
"Millions," he admitted. "Possibly hundreds."
The air inside the study thinned.
"Who authorized the movement?" she asked, voice razor-thin.
A shuffle of papers on his end.
"No clear authorization.
But some documents… bear Lucas Moreau's secondary approval code."
Of course.
Of course it was him.
Aria closed the laptop gently, not slamming it.
There was no panic here.
Only precision.
"Send the full reports to my private line," she said.
"And reroute every outgoing transaction into a suspended review folder.
Effective immediately."
"Even if the Board—"
"Especially if the Board demands it," she cut in smoothly.
A shaky breath on the other end.
"Understood."
She hung up.
Minutes later, she was sliding into the black town car waiting by the front steps.
Noel was already seated inside, a file open in his lap, face unreadable in the early gray light.
Neither of them spoke as the car pulled away.
Words were unnecessary now.
The rules had been rewritten overnight.
This wasn't survival anymore.
It was ascendancy.
Rain streaked the windows, blurring the manicured estates of Lyon into shapeless, crumbling shadows.
Aria leaned her forehead lightly against the cool glass, feeling the slow churn of the city waking up — a city built on legacy, bloodlines, and backroom wars.
She didn't fear it.
She didn't despise it.
She simply understood it now.
"It's not about fighting them head-on anymore," she thought.
"It's about bleeding them before they realize they're dying."
The towers of downtown Lyon rose ahead — sharp teeth cutting into the slate sky.
Moreau Corp's headquarters was a black glass monolith near the city's heart, its gleaming logo half-obscured by the mist.
Fitting.
Rotting kings always built the prettiest tombs.
The car stopped under the covered entrance.
Security guards stood at attention, dark suits blending with the shadows, umbrellas snapping against the storm.
Aria stepped out without waiting for Noel to open her door.
Every step across the wet concrete echoed louder in her chest than outside.
The automatic doors whispered open at her approach.
Warm air, laced with antiseptic polish and cold coffee, hit her face.
Inside, the lobby was already buzzing — early reporters clustering by the revolving doors, employees whispering behind marble columns.
The wolves smelled blood.
She walked forward — alone — toward the elevators.
And that's when it happened.
A soft, almost apologetic bump against her left shoulder.
A junior assistant — a girl barely out of university, clutching too many folders and tablets — stumbled back, bowing frantically.
"S-sorry, Miss Moreau!"
Aria waved her off without slowing, mind already elsewhere —
until she caught the glint of a file sliding across the floor toward her heel.
Half-hidden under a security stand.
Curious, she stooped down — fast, silent — and picked it up before the assistant could even turn back.
PROJECT LION — EMERGENCY TRANSFER AUTHORIZATION
Large red letters stamped across the top.
Aria's stomach tightened.
Her thumb flipped the folder open, hidden from casual view.
Inside:
A single sheet.
A bank authorization transfer.
Not just small amounts —
entire subdivisions of Moreau Corp shifted to holding companies she'd never heard of.
And the signature line?
Not Vincent Moreau.
Lucas.
The air turned heavier around her, the buzzing of the lobby dropping into white noise.
She tucked the folder under her arm smoothly, turning back toward the elevators.
Her reflection in the black marble walls didn't look like a girl anymore.
It looked like a storm waiting for the first lightning strike.