The Council met in silence.
Not the silence of strategy.Not the silence of authority.
The silence of panic.
The recording had gone viral in less than twelve hours.Half the country had seen it.The other half had heard whispers of it.
Senator Uzoamaka Diri sat stiff at the table, her pearl earrings trembling as she adjusted her glasses.
"They are turning the people against us," she hissed.
Another member slammed a folder on the desk. "Against you. Against Ibrahim. The rest of us can still recover."
But they all knew it was a lie.The stain had already spread.
Far from the chambers of power, Elara stood on the balcony of a safe house, watching the city below.Crowds gathered around television shops, replaying the leaked footage again and again.
She whispered, "The house is burning."
Khalid joined her. His face was drawn, eyes shadowed. "Burning houses crush whoever stands inside. That includes us."
She turned to him. "We are not inside. Not anymore. We are watching from the fireline."
Inside, NUMA had her laptop open. "We need to prepare for counterattacks. Digital, political, physical. They will not go down without cutting throats."
Fatima crossed her arms. "Then let them try. Every strike they make will be proof of guilt."
Elara nodded, but her chest felt heavier.Because she knew the Council would not only target strangers.
They would come for blood.
And they did.
That evening, news broke.
A junior Council aide was found dead in his apartment. Suicide, the broadcast said. A note claiming he faked the entire recording for money.
NUMA threw her shoe at the screen. "Pathetic. Too clean. Too fast."
Khalid shook his head. "They are desperate. If they are killing their own staff, then the walls are falling faster than we thought."
Elara did not respond.
She was staring at her phone.
A single new message.
From her mother.
Come home. Before it is too late.
She read it three times.Her heart clawed against her ribs.
She had not heard her mother's voice in months. Not since the confession that Elara was never supposed to exist.
Khalid saw the screen. "You cannot trust her."
Elara whispered, "But what if this time she is not covering him? What if this time she is reaching for me?"
Fatima's voice was steady. "If you walk back into that house, you may never walk out again."
Elara clenched the phone. "And if I do not, I may never know the truth she is holding."
That night, she dreamed of fire.Not flames devouring buildings, but fire built into walls, into floors, into the very bones of a house.And she was inside, running from room to room, each door locked, each window barred.
Her father's voice filled the walls.Her mother's voice whispered from the floors.Her sister's voice bled through the cracks.
When she woke, she knew.
The Bello house was not a home.It was an altar.Built on ash.
And she was born as the match.
The next morning, NUMA burst into the room.
"They have moved funds. Billions. Hidden in offshore accounts. They are preparing to scatter."
Fatima cursed. "Cowards."
Khalid frowned. "No. Not cowards. Planners. They will destroy everything here before they vanish. That includes us."
Elara stood. Her voice was iron.
"Then we tear down the house before they can run."
That evening, she walked back to the Bello estate.
For the first time in years, the gates opened for her without question.
The guards watched her pass.Not with loyalty.Not with pity.
With fear.
Inside, her mother was waiting in the grand hall.
She looked smaller than Elara remembered. Her hair silvered. Her eyes hollowed.
"You should not have come back," she said softly.
Elara's reply was colder than the air between them.
"Neither should you."